


White Horses

by JStevens



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Chronic Illness, Death Eaters, Dodgy charms, Drama, Drarry, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Humor, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Oh God The Typos, Societal Homophobia, Suggest appropriate tags? I've no idea really, Written Pre-Half Blood Prince, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-19 02:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 150,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29619255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JStevens/pseuds/JStevens
Summary: They say that there are no white horses—those that we think of as white are really just a faded and deceiving grey. Things aren't always what they seem to be, but through the maze of artifice and deceit, perhaps we might still find something true.When Harry returns for his last two years at Hogwarts School, he will find that boundaries are shifting and not everyone is who he thought—including himself. Struggling to decide who to put his trust in as the war escalates, he is going to have to learn that change is like those elusive white horses: swift, beautiful, and unstoppable. And everything will begin to change the instant that Draco Malfoy walks uninvited into a D.A. meeting one night.(Complete and ancient story formerly posted on Schnoogle, written pre-HBP. Reposting chapters daily as I clean each one up a bit!)
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Ginny Weasley, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 18
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As was the case with [Black Sheep](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9087748/chapters/20661847), this is just me moving ancient fics that were once posted on Schnoogle to A03. It's going to take a while since there are so many chapters and since I'm trying to clean the text up a bit as I go. This was the first fic I ever wrote, half a lifetime ago, and it shows. It would be impossible to fix all the rookie mistakes and plot-holes I left when first writing it without really changing the story, but I'll try to keep adding slightly brushed-up chapters as steadily as I can!
> 
> I'd wanted to write a story about how defeating the dark lord wasn't _really_ the end of the story. It had already seemed pretty obvious at the time that the seventh book would surely culminate in an epic battle between Harry and Voldemort, but as I waited for HBP to be released, I entertained myself (and some readers on Fiction Alley) with a different take on years 6 and 7. They're ridiculously off base now, since it was before we knew anything about Horcruxes or most of Snape's background or plenty of other twists and turns that came out post-OotP. But when I googled the story out of nostalgic curiosity one night and found people still searching for it in 2020, I decided I might as well migrate it over and clean it up a bit. So here we go. A trip down memory lane, to the world of 1996 as imagined back in something like 2004.

**Prologue**

_Fifth Year Girls' Dormitory, Gryffindor Tower, Late May 1996_

"So, explain to me again just why _I_ am here?"

Harry Potter looked askance at the girl next to him, who also happened to be one of his two best friends, Hermione Granger. It had to be the dozenth time he'd asked the question. And if Hermione had been the one to answer, perhaps Harry would have gotten a logical explanation—but instead Harry got a slightly less useful response from Parvati. Parvati Patil was one of Hermione's housemates and was positively quivering with excitement at the moment. "Look, I explained to you already. Lavender told us—"

"Lavender, who is currently trying to break Ginny's record of dating every guy in Gryffindor?" Harry interrupted to ask.

Hermione and Parvati both glared at him—though probably for different reasons—before Parvati pushed on again, "Lavender told us about this old charm, which witches—"

"I am _not_ a witch." But Harry was pointedly ignored once again.

"—which _magical_ _people_ have used for generations, because it is supposed to—"

"'Supposed to'? Come on, Hermione," Harry wheedled, trying to reason with his best friend, "since when would you believe in any hogwash like this bogus charm?"

At this point, Parvati threw up her hands and gave up on her explanation. Rolling her dark eyes, she asked him nastily, "Honestly, Harry, are you consciously trying to channel Ron here, or have you finally become as annoying and dense as him after all these years together?"

But she had only given Harry more ammo, which he was not going to pass up as he asked in a bewildered voice, "And why not have Ron here? Why me, eh? Why not some other of your girlfriends?"

Parvati was the one to respond to Harry, while Hermione had developed a sudden fascination with the duvet she was lying on as soon as Ron Weasley, Harry's other best friend, had been mentioned. "Look. The charm requires three single witch—er, 'magical people'—in order to work. And Lavender already has a boyfriend, who she found using this charm. Ginny, as you so tactfully pointed out, is in no need of any help. We don't really associate with any of the other younger years, and the upper years are all taken as well. As for Ron—"

Parvati paused to glance at Hermione, who had looked up with a gleam of manic determination in her eyes. Harry knew that look. It was lecture time.

"Harry, now you know that I don't normally go in for these superstitious rumors. They positively border on the trash that Trelawney dishes out. _I_ am participating for the sake of scholarship." Hermione paused—ignoring Parvati's indignant squawk over the insult to her beloved Divinations professor—and took up a familiar tone: the one which usually caused Harry and Ron to slip into a stupor for the subsequent fifteen minutes it would take her to get to the point.

"There are so many supposed 'charms' like this in the magical world, which those who were raised with magic assume to have at least some truth. As Muggleborns, we of course have no such inundation in magical lore and thus have no reason to believe there is any truth to them. However, this _is_ magic we're talking about. We have so many other gibberish incantations that can have effects ranging from making something levitate to giving you complete control over another person's mind. It's worth at least investigating if there is any truth in these old wives' tales. Thus I am participating, and I plan to take full notes on the repercussions, if any, of performing the charm. Perhaps with more study I could write a treatise on it for Flitwick. It could improve my outlook for the N.E.W.T.s."

Both Harry and Parvati looked slightly ill at this last comment, since they were still just finishing up their O.W.L.s. Harry opened his mouth to protest again, but Hermione cut him off with an evil glint in her eye. "Come on, Harry. You can't tell me you wouldn't enjoy a little company. Especially after the whole disaster with Cho."

His teeth clicked audibly as he snapped his mouth shut again. _Great, just what I needed reminding of: the Cho debacle_. Cho Chang was the Ravenclaw Seeker, who was a year ahead of him, and their brief but disastrous relationship still remained a favorite subject for entertainment around Gryffindor Tower. And in the Slytherin dungeons. And just about everywhere else in the school. With a dull flush in his cheeks, he nodded shortly. It would probably be less painful to simply go along with Hermione anyhow. Hadn't they all seen what happened when they tried to stand up to her in the past, like with S.P.E.W.? Yes, definitely better to just play along.

Hermione beamed at him before turning to check the procedure with Parvati one last time. "So we get together three single 'magical people' with the same name, correct? Who then sit around a table together, holding hands, and everyone says 'white horses' simultaneously?"

Parvati nodded, leaning forward with sparkling eyes as she gushed, "And one of the three will find true love within a years time!"

Hermione afforded this claim a clinical-looking nod, although Harry thought there was an unusual flush riding high on her cheeks. Then again, they were sitting in front of the fire, here in the fifth-year girls' dormitory, so perhaps it was just the heat. He was about to open his mouth to ask Hermione about the names when she turned to him. "Yes, Harry, you want to know about the 'same name' issue." She sighed, looking at him with pity, before continuing in a slightly disapproving voice, "If you had taken any _worthwhile_ courses, perhaps you wouldn't need to ask. For example, in Arithmancy much of what we study is about parameters of magic and how we define the elements used in our spellwork."

She looked at him hopefully but didn't seem to take much from the blank stare he had directed back at her. With another heavy sigh, she soldiered on.

"So, that means that we can skew the focus of what we define as our names. We obviously do not all have the same first names or even the same last names—as Lavender did when she performed this charm with her cousins last summer—but we do all share the name of _Gryffindor_."

Harry looked like he was catching on, which was more than Hermione could say for when she'd first explained it to Parvati. The other girl had been crushed when she'd heard how well the charm worked for Lavender only to then realize that she didn't have two other people with the same name to perform it with. Hermione, being of course the cleverest witch of her age, had come up with the solution of using their house identity as a name.

While Harry still had his doubts, he _had_ agreed to participate in this little experiment of Hermione's. (Though he'd agreed before he'd really known what it was, of course.) He glanced rather miserably at the two attractive girls in front of him, sprawled over their beds. Most his year mates would kill to be where Harry was now, and he would've run down the stairs and offered any one of them the chance to switch with him that instant if he could. But boys couldn't come up to the girls' dormitory without a girl physically taking them up and holding onto them the entire way, otherwise the stairs would turn into a smooth chute that would eject the offending boys quite speedily, accompanied by a shrieking alarm. He'd had Hermione hold his hand all the way until he'd sat down where he currently was in front of the fire, just to be safe, and he hadn't dared move since.

With both Hermione and Parvati looking at him so expectantly, Harry gave up his last shred of token resistance. Holding his hands out to Hermione, he muttered, "Fine, all right—let's get it over with." He was nearly jerked off his feet as both Parvati and Hermione grabbed his hands at once to drag him to the small, spindly-legged side table they'd set in the middle of the room. Even Parvati seemed willing to forget the way she'd been teasing him earlier about wanting Hermione to hold his hand till he'd been sat safely on the worn rug in their dorm room.

The trio settled at the table, each girl holding one of Harry's hands and then joining their free hands as well. Hermione looked over the other two with a magisterial air and reminded them one last time, "All right, just focus on our unity as Gryffindors. And on the count of three..."

Parvati's grip tightened slickly on Harry's sweating palm.

"One."

Hermione nodded in time with her counting, and Harry and Parvati both joined her for the next number.

"Two."

Harry felt a peculiar tingling sensation down his spine but wasn't sure if it was magic or just dread.

"Three."

He didn't have time to guess which.

" _White horses_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea behind this charm was inspired by an actual bit of spell-work from a book my sister and I had when we were wee little preteens—Hocus Pocus, by Titania Hardie—in which it is described thusly: "If three unmarried people with the same name sit at a table and all say 'White Horses,' one of them will be married within the year." I decided to tone it down to simply "true love" for these kids.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 01**

HARRY POTTER'S SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY, AND indeed his whole summer, had been spent quite miserably with his equally miserable relatives. It'd been a jarring return to the life he'd lived before Hogwarts, and what had made it hardest of all to accept was that he'd actually thought things might change for once. At last he'd had an actual adult guardian who wanted to care for him. And Sirius had owned a house that was completely Unplottable and secure as anywhere could be. And then Sirius had died, and Grimmauld Place had been seized by the government, and neither Dumbledore nor anyone else had swept in to whisk Harry away from his relatives as the hot months slowly crawled by.

Instead Harry had spent the very long summer within the beige and boring walls of Number 4, trying not to think about Sirius or Grimmauld Place or any of it. The only time he'd left Privet Drive at all had been to attend Sirius's funeral, and since that fell under the previous rule of not thinking about Sirius, Harry had chosen to forget everything about the short excursion as soon he'd been returned to his relatives afterwards. Most of the time he'd even succeeded.

To be fair, life at the Dursley’s hadn't been as bad as it could have been. His cousin, Dudley, had been quite petrified of Harry, despite being nearly a foot taller and easily a hundred pounds heavier than his weedy cousin. After the dementor incident of the year before, Dudley had taken to noticeably paling and stuttering whenever Harry was around—quite acting like the gibbering idiot that Harry had, in fact, always known him to be. And while Harry still wondered what Dudley could have seen when the dementors had attacked, he knew better than to bring it up if he wanted the relative peace to continue. Harry had also found himself quite apathetic towards the senior Dursley, despite his uncle's best attempts at intimidation. Vernon Dursley no longer seemed all that frightening, after everything else Harry had seen in the past couple years.

It was actually Harry's Aunt Petunia who'd got the most of his attention among his relatives that year. After she'd been foolish enough to let it slip the previous summer that she knew about the wizarding prison Azkaban, and since he had little else to do at Number Four, Harry had spent a good deal of the summer trying to trick her into revealing anything else she might know about the Wizarding world. Unsurprisingly, his aunt only got tight-lipped each time he dropped wizarding terms into a conversation in an attempt to trip her up—so tight-lipped, in fact, that he was sometimes amazed her mouth didn’t simply disappear into her face. But she hadn’t kicked him out of the house (most definitely because of her promise to Dumbledore), and so he'd kept on pushing the limits, though it hadn't ever done any good.

Without any surprise reveals from Petunia to distinguish one endless day from the next, Harry had been forced to skim the _The Daily Prophet_ and _The Quibbler_ for any news to distract himself from not thinking about Sirius or about what Dumbledore had told him at the end of the year or about what his friends might be doing without him or about what Voldemort might be plotting next. It had worked about as well as his attempts to trick Petunia, which was to say that it hadn't really worked at all. In fact, the story that had most caught his attention all summer had been a report about the sentencing of Lucius Malfoy and the eight other Death Eaters that had been captured after the battle in the Ministry of Magic. Harry had poured over the article as soon as he saw the headline. And then the author had felt the need to mention how Narcissa and Draco Malfoy had been seen at the funeral of one Sirius Black, alluding to Narcissa's ties to the house of Black as more proof of the Malfoy family's allegiance to the Dark Arts, and Harry had had no choice but to thrown the paper across the room, since it had made him break his rule of not thinking about Sirius. And besides, he certainly hadn't wanted any reminder of what a nasty surprise it had been to see his rat-faced rival at the funeral in July.

Still, the confirmation that Lucius Malfoy was being locked away for numerous consecutive life sentences was the best news Harry got all summer, since he didn't get any other sort of news at all from the Order. Even Lucius Malfoy’s money, so much of which had funded the Ministry for years, hadn’t kept him from justice this time, and he'd been packed off to the new prison that had been constructed to replace Azkaban, with no hope of repeal. It seemed the Ministry was trying to distract the public from the missteps they'd made by denying Voldemort's return for an entire year, and what better way than by making a vicious example of the first criminals of the war? Harry was only sorry they hadn't managed to catch more of the Death Eaters after the Department of Mysteries.

When he hadn't been scouring the papers or shirking his aunt's chores, Harry had been reading his Defense Against the Dark Arts textbooks backwards and forwards. He'd gone through all of the texts from his past five years of schooling again—except the Lockhart books, of course—and made sure that he knew everything covered. He'd also already read the entire textbook for the upcoming school year, which he'd ordered in advance through Owl Post.

It wasn't exactly that he'd accepted his role in the upcoming war. He mostly tried not to think of _that_ either, because whenever he did, he felt a surge of anger and disbelief surge up so strongly within himself that he had to clench his fists to keep from breaking anything. He might've expected that Dumbledore would try to contact him with _some_ direction, after dropping the equivalent of a bomb on all Harry's plans for his future, but there hadn't been a single letter all summer. Apparently he was just to sit tight in Muggle suburbia until either term began or it was time to pull him out of hiding and point him at Voldemort to commence with the murder.

But the longer he kept the knowledge of the prophecy to himself, the more Harry hated it, because the extra time only gave him longer to realize that it made _no sense_ at all. His home had been destroyed, his parents murdered, his school career interrupted by constant attacks and brushes with death, and all of it because some nonsense that _Trelawney_ of all people had spewed and that Voldemort had actually put stock in. And because of that, because of someone else's mistaken assumptions, Harry had lost everything. And would have to become a murderer. But unless he wanted to simply give up and let Voldemort kill him first, he apparently had no choice but to prepare himself however he could.

There'd been a number of attacks that summer, mostly small skirmishes whose only point seemed to be making sure that the Wizarding world remembered that Voldemort truly was back, but Harry knew there would be more to come. He simply didn't know what it would be. He hadn't had any more visions of Voldemort's actions thanks to the Occlumency lessons he'd started the previous school year, and it was those very Occlumency lessons that brought brought him to Dumbledore’s office on a calm, rather balmy evening in September of his sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

* * *

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE LOOKED OVER HIS his gold-rimmed half-moon spectacles at the boy staring rather stonily back at him with his mother's green eyes. It was their third Occlumency lesson together since the new school year had begun, which was when Dumbledore had taken over the lessons for Professor Snape. Things had gone rather poorly between Harry and Snape, all told, and Dumbledore had decided it would be best not to push the point once again. There were other things for Snape to teach the boy, after all.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, lightly sucking on the lemon drop that was still dissolving in his mouth and rolling it along his cheek before he spoke. "As I told you before, Harry, you've been doing remarkably well. Your improvement clearly shows how much effort you put into your practice this summer," he started kindly, only to be met with more silence. "Yes, and no more dreams involving Voldemort, I trust?"

Harry might have snorted at that, but it was quickly masked as the boy replied in a short tone, "No, sir. None of _those_ dreams." Dumbledore nodded sagely, as though this were somehow significant news. He liked to keep his students wondering. Not that Harry was wondering a blessed thing. He was too busy quietly fuming to himself.

 _No prophetic dreams, just the regular old recurring nightmares. Not that those are anything you'd care about,_ Harry grumbled to himself, wondering if Dumbledore would pick up the sentiment using his Legilimency. A part of him was even hoping that Dumbledore might, because he was spoiling for a fight.

Letting the headmaster pick through his brain for an hour every week wasn't helping Harry's anger towards Dumbledore fade back into anything with less thorns and sharp edges. He still didn't have any idea how to take back the things he'd shouted at the old man in this very office or how to move past all the confused, hurt feelings of the previous year, which had only grown worse after an entire summer of silence. He didn't want Dumbledore in his head, pawing through his memories and emotions. Dumbledore was already getting his future. The least he could do was let Harry keep the rest to himself.

"Yes, very good. Very good progress indeed, my boy." The old man seemed to realize that his compliments weren't being met with much reception, so he switched to a more business-like tone. Stroking his long beard, he leaned back in his chair, preferring to examine the arched ceiling above him than the sullen boy before him. "Yes, well, as we've discussed before, Harry, while there have been a number of attacks this summer, we in the Order believe this to be the proverbial calm before the storm. It seems to us that Voldemort's actions were merely testing the precautions against him, to see just how vulnerable his victims are. It's likely that Voldemort will begin striking in earnest soon, now that his return is known to all. And knowing of his animosity towards you, plus given the circumstances of who you are to him, we—both the Order and the staff here at Hogwarts—must insist that you take part in special lessons beginning this year."

At this point, he glanced at the young Gryffindor. Harry stared back. "Now? You left me on my own all summer, with nothing at all to do to prepare, and now it's time for special lessons?" he asked, wondering what it was they were expecting to teach him. Introductory Defeating Dark Lords? An Elementary Course in How to Get Away With Murder?

"There were many preparations to be made during the summer, Harry, and your aunt's house isn't exactly the easiest place to host a score of teachers who might tutor you in advanced magics and combat skills." His blue eyes twinkled with hint of humor before he continued, "But here at Hogwarts, you can practice to your heart's content without any pesky letters from the Ministry. This special tuition should also assist you in your future endeavors towards Aurorship, as Professor McGonagall has informed me that you are hoping to apply for the Auror program."

Dumbledore paused once again, an expectant smile on his face as if he were waiting for Harry to eagerly launch into some excited speech about how it was his dream to be an Auror and take down Dark wizards like Voldemort. Harry stared back until the headmaster finally heaved a sigh, gave his sweet another suck, and carried on.

"Advance tuition in potions, charms, transfiguration, mediwizardry, and dueling—both wizard dueling and the more physical dueling involving muggle hand-to-hand combat and weaponry. And, of course, you and I will continue with our Occlumency and perhaps even start in on teaching you some Legilimency, if you prove yourself to be up to the responsibility. Each evening of the week will be assigned to one subject, leaving you one night open each week for your Defense club, if you still intend to hold it."

Harry blinked at the mention of the D.A., which he hadn't thought of once since returning to school. _Not to mention Quidditch!_ he realized with a silent groan. He'd actually been looking forward to getting back to Quidditch this year, as Umbridge had banned him for life in his fifth year. He presumed the ban was void, since the mad cow had been sacked from both Hogwarts and the Ministry.

Even if Harry wanted to accept that all this as some attempt to help him—a plan devised for his own benefit to give him the best chance at survival—it didn't mean he had to like being pushed around like a chess piece atop a board. "Headmaster," he started, his voice nearly shaking with frustration, "look, I know that you all expect me to kill Voldemort. But how _exactly_ am I supposed to learn all these extracurricular lessons in addition to all of my N.E.W.T. courses? Not to mention Quidditch practices and games, and maybe even being a normal teenager from time to time?" Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak, but Harry couldn't stop the words spilling out of himself in a rush. "You’ve already told me that I’m tied up in this prophecy that I can't escape and that it's probably going to get me killed, but can’t it at least wait until I’m out of school? Or how about when I’m actually an Auror, if I manage to become one?"

As soon as the words left Harry’s mouth, though, he realized what he was saying. He didn't need Dumbledore to say it aloud, because he already knew the truth of it: it couldn’t wait. Every day that he tried to push the reality of the situation away could mean more people dying so he might enjoy his evenings playing Exploding Snap and practicing Quidditch.

Dumbledore seemed to see that understanding in him, and the old man nodded, looking sorrowful—when that was the last thing Harry wanted to see from him. He would've rather had Dumbledore get angry back at him, even shout at him for being selfish. He couldn't stand the constant _regret_ from Dumbledore, who was ever so _sorry_ for what he was making Harry do but who would carry on making him do it anyway. Harry hadn't ever wanted Albus Dumbledore to fail in his eyes. He hadn't wanted to lose the image of the great wizard as some godlike figure who would always swoop in to provide him with all the answers and save him from any pinch. But he had lost it, and now all he was faced with was a tired old man, speaking slowly in front of him as if each word cost him another year.

"If it were up to me, Harry, I would give you all the time in the world. But I fear that the world would not have very much time left if I did so."

* * *

HARRY TRUDGED THROUGH THE STONE corridors of the castle, turning down different halls at random and dragging his feet to buy even a bit more time before he'd have to face his friends and all the questions they were sure to have. He could probably try to pass off all this new training as just another part of 'being Harry Potter'. Everyone knew Voldemort kept trying to come after him, after all, even if they didn't know the real reason why. Harry still hadn’t told either of his best friends that he knew the full details of the prophecy they'd gone after the year before and which had foretold either his murder of or murder by Voldemort. He still couldn't bear for them to find out what he was going to have to become.

He remembered Hermione asking him once, back in third year, if he truly wanted to kill Wormtail. And he hadn't. For all his murderous impulses, he hadn't really been ready to kill another person back then. _But I don’t have much choice anymore, do I?_

He hated Wormtail. He hated Belletrix Lestrange. He hated Voldemort. They were monsters who had taken away the only family he'd ever had. He'd wished they were all dead, certainly. He wouldn't shed any tears if someone else killed them. At times he'd even dreamed of killing them himself. But it was all empty fantasy when it came time to face the real thing. Then he realized that he didn't know if he could end another life, even if it were the life of a miserable creature who had caused him nothing but suffering.

 _Maybe I_ am _just a scared little boy_ , he thought to himself. But of course he was. What else could he be? He was a half-trained sixteen-year-old who didn’t have any particularly stunning magical prowess or special powers, and all the extra lessons in the world weren't going to get him ready to take on one of the greatest Dark wizards their world had ever produced. So what was supposed to save him? _Love?_ No, love had only ever got those who cared for him killed.

Lost in his dark thoughts, Harry didn't notice for a while where he was, but then he looked up and realized he'd ended up in some section of the dungeons he'd never seen before. The whole area was dusty and seemed to be in disuse. There weren't any doors leading off the corridor he'd found himself in, as far as he could see, and for a moment, he wished he had the Marauder’s Map on him.

The Marauders.

Sirius.

Oh.

Letting his train of thought shudder to a stop, Harry turned back around, taking vague note of where the corridor hedged back into the main part of the castle for future reference. It never hurt to know extra hiding places from Filtch, after all. But he let his feet lead him back towards Gryffindor Tower, managing to keep his mind off Sirius by fretting instead about what he was going to say to his best friends.

* * *

AFTER GIVING THE FAT LADY the password ("Ice Pops"), Harry was surprised and almost relieved to walk in and find Ron and Hermione getting along for a change. Though if they _had_ been arguing, then they wouldn't have paid him much notice, and he could've avoided the conversation a bit longer. _Oh well, I would have to explain it eventually._ Even Ron would notice if he were gone every night for hours at a time.

Harry’s best friends looked up at him from their congenial chess match, where Ron seemed to have taken almost all Hermione's pieces from the chessboard. The worry on Hermione’s face when she looked at Harry was so obvious that anyone with more feeling than a troll would've been able to pick up on it. Harry would've been embarrassed half to death if there were anyone else around to witness it, but luckily the common room was empty at nearly eleven at night.

"Oh, Harry," she breathed in relief. "You’re finally back. How was the Occlumency lesson? Did it last all this while? Was there some sort of problem?”

There was an edge to that last question. Hermione still didn’t understand why Harry was acting so cool towards Dumbledore this year. She'd tried once to suggest that his behavior was due to Sirius's death, and recommended that he should talk about his grief, and Harry had snapped at her in such a fury that neither she nor Ron had tried to bring up Sirius in Harry’s presence again.

Tired and not seeing any point in beating around the bush, Harry dropped into one of the overstuffed armchairs that littered the room and told her, "Actually, things didn’t go all that well. Dumbledore wants me to take all these extra lessons, which are pretty much just advanced magic for warfare and fighting. After all, I’m The Boy Who Lived once again, not just Undesirable Number One. It wouldn’t be so effective a symbol if The Boy Who Lived died."

Ron swallowed hard at the thought of his best friend dying, but he didn’t interrupt as Harry went on to explain how he would have to meet with different professors every night. Hermione, trying to be pragmatic and supportive simultaneously, insisted, "Well, Professor Dumbledore is only looking out for your best interests. You know how much of a target you are, Harry. The headmaster surely just wants to be sure you can fight for yourself."

Harry’s mouth tightened, and there was a dangerous glint in his eyes when he heard Hermione's words. "Oh no, if I’m fighting for anyone, it's definitely not for myself," he muttered bitterly.

Taken aback by his friend’s rancor, Ron blustered into the conversation to point out, "Well, all that extra training and fighting and things should come in handy for the D.A., right? Just think of all the great things that you'll be able teach everyone. You are still going to teach, aren't you, mate? We should plan the first meeting for the new year!"

Ron looked pleased with himself, imagining that he'd managed to steer the conversation back into safer waters. But Harry pushed himself up out of his chair again with a tired sigh. Looking away from his friends, he absently brushed his hair out of his eyes, baring the glaring scar on his forehead. "Yeah, well, I’ll have to figure out this new schedule first. Once I do, I’ll set the coins so everyone knows we're still on, okay? But first I’m going to try to get some sleep. It's been a long night."

Then he left his friends by the fire, where they watched silently as he climbed the stairs before disappearing into the darkness.

* * *

IT WAS ONLY LATER THAT night, as Harry lay on his bed staring at the complicated new timetable he'd received from Dumbledore, that his mind turned back to something else that the old man had said. Harry had been sick and tired of feeling like he had no choice about how he spent whatever short time he might still have left, and in a fit of petulance, he'd snapped, "It's my life! Shouldn't throwing it away be my decision?"

But he'd been severely put off when Dumbledore's only reaction had been to pause for a moment, as if in surprise, and cock his head to the side as he mused, "You know, I had another boy in my office just last week saying the very same thing. Curious how these things work out." Even now, Harry was dumbfounded by the headmaster's seemingly random comment. And, despite himself, he couldn’t help but wonder just who the professor had been talking about.

* * *

A WEEK LATER, HARRY FOUND himself once again singled out before the familiar faces of the D.A., all lit up with anticipation as they waited to see what pearls of wisdom he might bestow upon them this year. There was a time when he'd been flattered by it all, feeling like he could finally live up to his name and fame. Now that he knew the only reason he was special was because Voldemort had picked him at random over Neville, it weighed on him like a lie. They all looked up to him like he had something to offer them, and he didn't want to be looked up to. He just wanted someone else to see the truth: he wasn't a symbol or a hero or anything. He was just kid who needed to learn how to be a killer before he could get killed himself.

"Welcome back to the D.A.," Harry said, trying not to dwell on their choice of names. The others wouldn't understand why he no longer found it clever to call himself part of Dumbledore's Army. "I know we disbanded under rather, er, _extreme_ circumstances last year." There were a few nervous titters. The memory of of Umbridge and her Inquisitor Squad was still uncomfortably fresh, even if things had returned to normal this year. "With Umbridge gone, I know there’s no longer a specific reason we have to hide our club. But the thing is...well, it's..."

Harry looked to Hermione as he trailed off, not knowing how best to say 'I'm not sure how many people at this school I'd really trust any longer.' It was a relief when she stepped up beside him and picked up the thread without hesitation.

"Given the current situation and the atmosphere in the Wizarding world," she started primly, "we feel it would be more prudent for the D.A. to continue its activities without really advertising them. It doesn't mean that we won't welcome new members; however, we will leave the invitation of new members to your discretion. Those of you still remaining in the D.A. are trusted, of course, as you have proved yourself in the last year." No one needed reminding of Marietta Edgecombe and the price of her defection.

"If you trust someone enough to tell them of the D.A., then we will trust your judgement in turn and allow them to join. But please do choose carefully." Hermione wrinkled her nose and looked around at the assembled sixth and seventh years, reminding them, "Some of us already have our hands full preparing for our N.E.W.T. exams. We simply don’t have the time to screen each new member ourselves or bring them up to speed."

"Yes, er, right," Harry agreed. "Thank you, Hermione, for reminding us all of the exams that we really don't want to think about in the first month of school." She shot him a look as some of the others tittered, but Harry acted as if he hadn't seen it. "So, yes, we _will_ be accepting new members. But we won’t be starting at the beginning again. If you invite someone in, make sure you can help tutor them in what we've learned here in the D.A. so far. If there is a legitimate reason why you can’t, then one of your fellow senior members can help you." There were some nods of varying degrees of enthusiasm. "Otherwise, this year we will move on to more of a focus on dueling."

 _This_ announcement was met with a brief cheer, students punching the air and jostling one another in excitement, and Harry's stomach twisted as he watched them. Fighting for your life didn't feel like anything to cheer about to him. Every duel he'd had against a Death Eater or Voldemort had been a sickening, desperate mess.

"This won't be like the practice dueling you may have done before," Harry told the others flatly, bringing the excitement down a few notches with his grim tone of voice. "We may start with elementary dueling: counting down, taking turns at curses, all that. But by the end of the year, you should be up to dueling against multiple opponents and defending yourself against unexpected attacks, including physical attacks. Our final test for the year will be a surprise attack. Each of you will be attacked, without any warning, outside of practice. Probably in the last term, since I don’t imagine anyone will be ready before then."

Watching Zacharias Smith's normally smug face pale, Harry felt an uncharitable flash of satisfaction. Now they all looked properly afraid, which at least meant that Harry was no longer the only person in the room picturing his future with dread. His lips quirked up in a wry twist. "But, of course, we aren’t ready for all that yet. We’ll start at the beginning. Everyone, pair up."

* * *

A GOOD DEAL OF HARRY'S planning for this new year with the D.A. had been influenced by his meeting with Remus Lupin just days before. Lupin had been brought back to Hogwarts to teach D.A.D.A. once again, but—as he'd explained with a sheepish laugh—that didn't usually including private tuition in hand-to-hand combat. "I've never really taught anyone else how to fight," he'd admitted, "unless you want to count schoolyard scuffles as teaching practice."

But even if he didn't have much experience teaching anyone else how to fight, he certainly did know how to do it himself. It had been a revelation to Harry, who never would've expected it from the bookish older man. Yes, he'd known that Lupin was more than handy with a wand, but he hadn't expected him to be able to get Harry in a headlock in less than two seconds flat. Over and over again, no matter how many ways Harry had tried to avoid it.

"I lived a long while on my own, Harry, and being a werewolf didn't exactly make most people friendly towards me," Lupin had explained with a grimace. "Then after your parents died, and Sirius had seemed to betray all of us and Peter, I didn't really want to put my trust in anyone else even if I could've. I went through a rather rough period, which also featured some rather rough characters, I'm afraid." He'd chuckled when he'd seen Harry agog with disbelief at the thought of _Lupin_ running in dodgy circles. He was all tweed and gentleness and well-timed chocolate bars, as far as Harry was concerned. When Harry had dared say so, the graying professor had laughed out loud. "Oh, please, Harry. I knew my way around a fight long before then. You wouldn't believe how many dust-ups I got into, with troublemakers like James and Sirius as best friends."

Every mention of Sirius's name had been like a fresh scouring of salt in a wound to Harry, but at least Lupin hadn't tried to push Harry to talk about Sirius's death himself. Instead he'd explained the types of magical dueling, physical fighting, and even muggle weapons that he planned to introduce Harry to. He'd started by teaching Harry some basic warm-ups (the sort he probably ought to have been doing anyway for Quidditch) and showing him how to throw a punch without risking breaking his hand, before inviting Harry to try to attack him—which was how Harry had ended up in headlock after headlock.

"But the lesson I most want you to take away tonight is, well," Lupin had caught himself, pausing and chuckling under his breath. "I'm afraid it's 'constant vigilance.' Mind you, I'm not trying to mock Mad-Eye, nor am I aping his teachings. But the most important skill I can pass on to you is how to be aware of your surroundings. Despite all the potions, charms, and spells that you learn, the one thing most likely to keep you alive is being aware of what's going on around you. I want you to try to take note of everything surrounding you." Harry had looked about the room guiltily and earned himself another laugh. "Not just in this room, but wherever you are. All the time, even if places and situations you already know.

"You must always be aware, especially a boy…excuse me, a _young man_ in your position, Harry. So watch people: learn what their body language tells you, learn the little ticks and signs that might let you know that someone is lying or nervous or fearful. Anything you can pick up. Always judge an area that you enter by what you can use in it. What might be used as a weapon, either by you or against you? What obstacles are there? What is the quickest way out? Or where might an ambush come in from? These are just a few of the things you should try to be aware of."

After the two-hour lesson, Harry had been exhausted and overwhelmed, and Lupin had seemed to take pity on him, clapping the Gryffindor on the shoulder and telling him, "Take heart. We're only just getting started. But as you progress, just please be certain that you don't make the mistake of thinking you're unbeatable. There will always be someone in this world better than you, Harry. Remember that. There's always some one more powerful, more intelligent, or just plain quicker than you. Don't let overconfidence lead you to your death." And neither had needed any reminding of the people they'd known who had met just such a fate.

* * *

AND THEN, OF COURSE, THERE had been transfiguration with McGonagall. The old Scot had warmed considerably toward Harry since the last year, but not nearly so much as Harry had warmed toward her after seeing her go to toe-to-toe with Umbridge. Though she was, of course, still stiff and strict and generally known as the hardest teacher at Hogwarts School. (You might think that Snape would be up for that title, but Snape wasn't fair. Snape was just a bastard and a biased one at that. McGonagall was unequivocally the same hardass to all her students: all houses, all years.)

As soon as Harry had stepped into her classroom late that Tuesday evening, she'd barked, "Sit down, Potter!" And he'd dropped hastily into the nearest desk, feeling altogether like a first year late on the first day, as McGonagall had launched straight into a lecture.

"Let me start by disabusing you of any idea that you'll get the same lackadaisical treatment in our lessons here as you seem to expect in class. I said last year that I would help you become an Auror, and I meant it. I don't care what that—" She'd broken off, her nostrils flaring dangerously as she struggled against the urge to indulge in profanity. "I don't care what that sorry excuse for a professor last year said. _I_ said you would be an Auror, and so then you shall. Have you ever known me to go back on my word?" She'd snapped the question in demand when Harry apparently had looked too uncertain for her tastes. He'd given a quick, mute shake of his head. "Good. Then I won't have any doubting. If say I'm going to do something, I'll do it, Potter."

She'd paused to pick up the parchment on her desk, giving the writing—which he'd quickly realized must be his O.W.L. results—a brief once over before fixing an even more critical look on him. Rolling the parchment back up and giving the table a sharp whack with it, she'd continued. "It seems you scraped through with enough O.W.L.s—for starting, anyway. Although I was quite disappointed with your transfiguration practical."

Harry had spluttered a bit, since he had gotten 'Exceeds Expectations' in both the practical and written examinations, which had already been more than he thought he really deserved. McGonagall had fixed him with a steely look though. "You could have gotten O's all across the board, Potter. And I won’t have you holding yourself back in these private lessons."

"Professor, while I appreciate your, er, high opinion, I'm _really_ not holding anything back." He'd tried a weak smile and then abandoned it when he saw the look on her face. "I’m just really not that good at transfiguration."

"Oh, tosh! That's quite enough of that, Mr. Potter. I've seen you quite obviously sabotage your own work in my class, particularly around that Weasley friend of yours. And while I understand, of course," she'd said in a rather pained voice, as if trying to understand her student's feelings was an arduous task, "that things are difficult for you, with all the expectations placed upon you by others, it is no excuse. Whether conscious or unconscious," she'd looked rather doubtful of the latter, "you have been holding yourself back to your friend's level. I know that you're no braggart, Potter. But that doesn't mean you should limit yourself for those around you. Maybe you won't hurt them, but you'll definitely hurt yourself."

Harry hadn't known what to make of all that, but when all the speech making was done with, McGonagall had forced him to redo the lessons from the past week. (Transfiguring clothes into different materials.) In class they'd merely been transfiguring t-shirts into jumpers or rain jackets or those sorts of practical things. Once he'd proved his proficiency at these, McGonagall had set him to transfiguring his clothes into more armor-like materials: impenetrable to projectiles or padded from blows, even fire resistant and bullet proof—not that it was likely a wizard would ever use a gun. Harry was a bit uncomfortable with the violent implications behind these transfigurations, and also disinclined to ask McGonagall why she knew how to do such things, but whether it had been her speech that had set some courage in him or if it had been in him all along, Harry had found that he really did have less problems with transfiguration, and he was able to perform the new tasks she set for him without fail. Though only when it was just the two of them. In class, he'd continued to perform much as he always had, only doing better when his grade was in danger, and pointedly ignoring the glares McGonagall shot at him each time she passed the latest of his disappointing projects on full display.

* * *

IF MCGONAGALL HAD BEEN ENLIGHTENING in the least, though, Flitwick's lesson had to have been the most frustrating so far. Harry probably ought to have been honored that the diminutive professor was trying to teach him wandless magic, but instead he was mostly annoyed. As Flitwick himself had said, wandless magic wasn't exactly something you were taught. It didn't follow exact patterns like casting with a wand, where you merely memorized the right words along with the right wand movement. To a certain extent, you could either do wandless magic or you couldn't. And so far, Harry couldn't.

They'd started with 'simple' elementals, as Flitwick had told Harry, "Elemental magic can be some of the most powerful—and thus unpredictable—magic there is. It is also one of the types of magic that most wizards and witches have a propensity towards accessing, when attempting wandless magic, and wizard children often accidentally light things on fire or move things with their magic when feeling strongly about something." Harry _did_ remember a certain incident when he'd found himself on top of the school roof after being chased by Dudley's gang as a child. Now that he was a wizard, he could recognize that he had done something like Apparition, but he still couldn't begin to explain how he'd done it. And of course there's been the incident in the reptile house at the zoo and the snake he'd accidentally set free.

But instead of managing any such wondrous feats, Harry had spent an hour and a half staring relentlessly at a matchstick, willing it to burn. It had been doubly frustrating since he knew he could make it light by simply dragging it across the pitted desktop or giving a flick with his wand. By the end of the night, all he had succeeded in was making the matchstick grow warm in his fingers and perhaps smoke a bit, but then maybe the smoke had been from his brain overheating.

Worst of all had been sitting there as Flitwick had tried to cheer him up, patting Harry on the small of his back (as that was the highest he could reach) and chuckling, “Well, no one gets it on their first try. Diagon Alley wasn't built in a day, you know! And you've been wand-broken all these years. And you've proven yourself more than sufficient there," he'd chortled heartily. "Imagine, a third year producing a Patronus! It'll just take some time, as you figure out a new way to think." Despite his encouragement, though, even the professor had seemed a bit shocked that the Boy Who Lived hadn't managed a miracle on his first day, and Harry had left feeling more disheartened than he had been since he'd first been told of these lessons.

* * *

OF COURSE, EVEN THAT COULDN'T compare to how he felt thinking about his next private lesson. As he watched the D.A. members walking their way through the first steps of dueling, he was mostly dreading his meeting with Snape the next night for advanced potions tutoring. After Harry had seen into Snape's Pensieve the previous year, he'd been more than a little wary of being alone with the professor, who had seemed a little unhinged at the end of the last year, and so far he'd succeeded in avoiding the Hogwarts Potion Master outside of class since school had begun. But his record was about to come to an end.

Noticing that Hermione was watching him, Harry forced something like a smile onto his face and stepped up to the nearest pair of duelers. He walked around the room, critiquing stances and handing out compliments on creative curses, even helping Dean Thomas out by unsticking his mouth when it was accidentally sealed shut by a curse gone wrong. (The artistic Gryffindor had had the misfortune to be partnered with Neville.) Eventually the time came for the group to be dismissed, with Harry calling after the trailing students with a reminder, "Same time next week!"

* * *

HARRY TOSSED AND TURNED ALL THAT night, as he addled himself with thoughts of all the different ways Snape could torture him. He was still rubbing sleep out of his eyes when he stumbled into the common room early the next morning, aiming to finish the Care of Magical Creature's essay he had due that afternoon. He'd only continued to take the class out of loyalty to Hagrid, since he didn't need it for the Auror exams.

Harry had to admit that Hagrid _was_ doing a better job at introducing magical creatures that the students were actually likely to encounter in the war. Even better, though, was the fact that his standards hadn't actually changed at all, so if Harry centered his whole essay on how misunderstood dragons were ("those poisonous claws are solely for rightful defense!") and threw in a few facts ("the 1732 Rampage, in which 38 wizards were killed, was completely provoked") then he was sure to pass with flying colors. Perhaps he ought to feel guilty about manipulating his friend, but he was too weighed down with the stress of his N.E.W.T. courses, plus the extra lessons, to really be bothered.

By the time Ron came stumbling down the tower with the rest of the upper Gryffindor boys, Harry had finished his essay and was taking the time to read ahead for his next Charms practical. Slamming his book shut, he was up and ready to leave with the rest of his year mates by the time everyone was tumbling out the door in the rush for food. In the Great Hall, Harry went almost unnoticed at the rowdy Gryffindor table—falling into his familiar old habits of glaring at Malfoy, ignoring Cho's end of the Ravenclaw table, and snickering at the boys' dumb jokes while arguing Quidditch. This at least required no thought or heroics, and he was glad to give his overworked mind a break.

* * *

AS SOON AS HARRY WALKED into the cold, dark atmosphere of the dungeons, though, he could no longer forget the trial that awaited him. Snape seemed about as displeased about it, as he shot Harry a glare so potent that the Gryffindor actually stopped in his tracks and caused Ron and Hermione to run into him from behind. The professor sneered at this spectacle, and Harry knew it would only get worse from here on out.

The rest of the class trailed into the room, ensconced in the thick silence that tended to hang over the potions dungeon. Once they were all seated and pulling out their supplies, Snape's smile (if you could call such an abomination a smile) grew, and he chided them in his soft, dangerous voice. "I wouldn't get too comfortable. Today we will be starting work on Veritaserum, a very complicated brew that will take us the greater part of a month to prepare. For the duration of this assignment, you shall be working with a single partner. Whom I will of course assign to you."

There were no outraged groans, as most the Gryffindors had come to expect this and most the Slytherins knew that partners would be assigned as most advantageous to them. Resigned, Harry glanced at Malfoy—who he would surely be stuck with, since Snape (along with the rest of the world) knew how much the two hated each other. It was a surprise then to see the pale Slytherin looking curiously blank, not flashing around one of his usual smirks nor jeering at the Gryffindor side of the room. Snape had already started reeling off names, and as Harry stood rooted to the spot, Hermione reluctantly dragged her cauldron over to Pansy Parkinson and Ron fumed as he moved to stand by Goyle, banging his cauldron as loudly as possible as he went.

Then things grew even odder when Harry's name was paired with Malfoy's. Of course that bit was no surprise, but rather it was Snape's attitude that was so shocking. He glared malevolently at Harry as he drawled out, "Potter, Harry." But then he turned a similar glare on Malfoy as he called out the other boy's name. He smiled silkily as he asked, "That is, if you think you can deal with the Boy Who Lived to Fail at Potions?" Normally the insult would be directed solely at Harry, and Snape might've even pretended to be sympathetic towards Malfoy, but today he was mocking the both of them.

Roughly half the Slytherins snickered while the other half stared ahead without reacting. Malfoy looked even more unbothered than before, as if nothing at all had happened. Harry was gaping at him, his mind trying to get around the fact that _Snape_ had just sneered at _Malfoy_ , when the boy in question turned icy gray eyes on him and asked, "Have you become deaf as well as dumb, Potter? Surely you don't expect me to sully myself in Gryffindor territory?"

Harry was too shocked to even throw back an insult, and he lugged his cauldron over to where Malfoy had carefully lined up his own expensive porcelain knives, their mahogany and silver-plated handles gleaming in the light of the numerous candelabra. Although the dungeons in general were ill-lit and gloomy (no doubt part of the aesthetic), the N.E.W.T. potions classroom at least was well illuminated to prevent mistakes in their delicate brews. Harry hadn't really given it much thought before, but he was still trying to make some effort to follow Lupin's advice and pay more attention to his surroundings.

Now he peered closely at the boy next to him. When Malfoy had called Harry over, he'd sounded as aloof as ever, and he certainly didn't seem to be bothered by Snape's suddenly about-face, though the Potions Master had always pampered the Slytherin poster boy in the past. But, wait: although his face didn't betray him and even the hands that smoothly minced his Augury liver were free of any tremors or shaking, Harry noticed a faint flush staining the other boy's neck, above the collar of his robes.

Malfoy noticed him staring, though, and looked back at Harry blankly for a moment, eyes reflecting like dull mirrors, before drawling out, "If you continue to sit there like a lump, Potter, I _will_ take points." He then smirked at Harry's surprised expression, tapping his prefect badge in reminder.

Embarrassed, since he should have expected something similarly prickish from Malfoy, Harry stormed away before he could be tempted to slap the smirk off of the prat's pointy little face. As he passed by, he shot Ron a commiserating smile. Ron was watching over Goyle's slipshod preparations in horror, as the oaf mixed incompatible and roughly chopped ingredients on the dirty table. (Crabbe hadn't made it into N.E.W.T. potions, and no one could honestly understand how Goyle had managed it—though likely it had involved foul play on the part of the Slytherins.) As Harry reached up into the wall cupboard to collect the Revealing Potion that they would use as a base for the Veritaserum, he noticed that Hermione was actually _talking_ with Pansy, although her face looked a bit like she had been asked to talk intelligibly with a flobberworm: a mix of doubt, surprise, and disgust.

Carrying the flasks of both his and Malfoy's potions back to the table, Harry flinched at the sound of Snape's voice ringing out once again. "You should all be collecting the Revealing Potions from last week. If you could not manage even as simple a brew as that, you have no chance at creating anything as delicate and unstable as Veritaserum. Yet regardless of your surely abysmal failure, you must at least attempt the potion. The instructions are on the board," he waved his wand lazily, and line upon line of the Potion Master's cramped scrawl appeared on the chalkboard. "You will find yourselves unable to copy down the recipe, as it is too valuable for foolish students to possess and duplicate, perhaps thinking it a good prank. Due to the charm, you will also find yourself unable to recall the potion's ingredients when you are outside class. The instructions will be displayed in this classroom only, for the next month as we work on it."

As Harry looked at the instructions on display, he realized that this potion truly was as difficult and complex as Snape had warned them. He was almost glad, in a bizarre way, to be partnered with Malfoy. At least he knew the Slytherin wouldn't let them mess it up. Although he loved to get one up on Harry, Malfoy wouldn't sacrifice his own grades to do it. _And,_ Harry thought to himself, _Malfoy's grades don't seem nearly as guaranteed now as they used to be, do they?_

Whatever had happened between Malfoy and Snape, the blond wasn't volunteering any information. He mostly ignored Harry, except when he was handing out orders or insults. Though the Slytherin boy _did_ look inordinately pleased, more pleased than Harry had seen him all term, when Snape announced loudly at the end of class, "Don’t forget, Potter. Remedial potions tonight."

* * *

THE CONFLICT IN THE HALL, like most of their altercations, arose from some simple biting comment. As they all tramped out of the dungeons, mixing with the rest of the crowd heading upstairs, Malfoy somehow ended up right next to Harry as they were stuck almost stationary in the crush. Harry hadn't noticed at once, so he jumped when Malfoy hissed in his ear, "You better not screw up on this potion, Potter."

Harry wrenched his head to the side, surprised to see those glittering eyes inches from his own. Malfoy drawled softly in his face, "Though that's probably asking too much, isn't it? Really, Potter, remedial potions… _again_?" Harry glanced around to confirm that both Ron and Hermione were several yards down the hall from him, though they both were obviously struggling to regain their usual positions on either side of him, since they'd realized that Malfoy and his goons had Harry alone. Goyle was grinning down at him mercilessly, and Crabbe had caught up with them from somewhere as well.

Just as Harry geared up for one of their usual spats, Malfoy froze as some little third-year Slytherin rudely shoved him aside on his way through. The expression of supercilious shock on his face was perfect, or at least Harry thought so as he snorted to himself. But even his laugh wasn't loud enough to disguise the underclassmen as he muttered, "Watch out, Malfoy. Better make room for the up and coming."

The small boy shot a glare up at the taller blond, and suddenly Harry didn't find it all that funny any longer. Something _odd_ was definitely going on. Malfoy had always had perfect control over Slytherin house, swanning about the place like someone had died and declared him king. Never mind Snape—now even little _third-year_ students felt like they could get away with insulting the Prince of Slytherin?

He glanced back at Malfoy and his sycophants, wondering what they'd do next. Malfoy’s expression was as haughty as ever as he turned on the boy, speaking in the sort of deceptively soft tone that Snape often used, "You ought to learn to respect your elders, boy. We wouldn't want you to disgrace Slytherin house."

The kid seemed to have a death wish, though, as he laughed openly in the sixth-year prefect's face. "I'm not the one that's a disgrace to Slytherin house. Really, respect for a Malfoy?" He smiled darkly, an expression for too nasty for a boy his age, "Your father is out of the inner circle, _Draco_ , and with him went any chances you had in the new order."

By this time, Hermione and Ron had caught up with them. Ron was smirking as he watched the strange drama unfolding before them, and Hermione's mouth had fallen open. Malfoy's lips tightened, but other than that, he gave no sign that he'd heard the boy. Barely nodding to Crabbe and Goyle, he stood by as the two stepped up and hauled the third year away through the crowd. Harry opened his mouth, but whether it was to continue their argument or to make a comment about what had just occurred, even he wasn't sure. Before he could say anything, Malfoy looked at him with that blank expression once again. Then his eyes seemed to focus on Harry, and he lit up once more with an unholy smile. "While I'd love to continue this _thrilling_ conversation, Potter, I've got better things to do—thirds years to torture, kittens to sacrifice, literally anything other than talking with you."

Was Malfoy _joking_?

"Besides," Malfoy continued, glaring pointedly at Hermione, "wouldn't want to get any mud on my robes."

No, definitely not then.

Before the trio could do anything but splutter, the blond had swept off in the wake of his two lumbering bodyguards. Ron grabbed Harry by the arm and turned him him away, muttering about new ways to 'destroy the ferret,' but Harry couldn't help looking back over his shoulder at the retreating Slytherin. His attention was only brought back to his friends when he heard Hermione murmur beside him, "Well, that was terribly interesting." Ron demanded to know what she meant by the comment, but neither he nor Harry could anything more out of her before their next class.

* * *

FINALLY, IT COULDN'T BE PUT off any longer. Private potions tuition with Snape. After loitering in the halls for nearly fifteen minutes, Harry knocked on the classroom door at seven o'clock sharp. Receiving no response from within, he eased the door open. The Potions Master was standing with his back to Harry, hands clasped tightly behind him, and since he didn't turn at once, Harry hurried to speak first before he could lose his nerve.

"Professor Snape?" The Potion Master still gave no sign as to whether he was even listening or not. "Uh, sir, I, um…I wanted to apologize." Still no response other than a quick twitch. "I know that looking into your Pensieve last year was wrong of me, and I'm sorry for it. But it did help me realize something." Now came the part that Harry was dreading the most. He spoke in a rush, as if that could make it easier, “ _Youwereright, sir_. My father really could be a complete git. I hadn't wanted to believe it, but—but it was true."

Harry stopped there, but the older man still seemed to be waiting for something more. Slower now, Harry picked his words with more care as he said, "I suppose I've sometimes made the mistake of seeing people as what I want them to be, not what they are. And I've been wrong more than once." Though he couldn’t say it aloud, he knew he might have been mistaken about Snape as well. After all, Snape was on Dumbledore's side. He was a reformed Death Eater who had given up everything in order to turn traitor and spy. He probably wasn't _completely_ evil.

Snape snorted, then turned at last with a sneer. "You wouldn’t be the first, Potter." Harry offered up an uncertain smile and was rewarded by the Potion Master snapping, "Get to work." But at least it seemed that Harry had succeeded in clearing the air between them enough that Snape no longer wanted to murder him. It was a step forward from the way they'd parted ways in their last private lesson.

They began work on an Invisibility Potion, which Harry thought could certainly offer some benefits that his father's old Invisibility cloak couldn't. A potion couldn't get caught on things or tripped over to reveal him at inopportune times, as his cloak had done in the past. They went through the potion together, Snape quizzing Harry the entire time and frequently lecturing him as he got things wrong.

"Stop, Potter!"

Harry froze with a beaker of thestral blood still poised above the cauldron. "The _yew_ ," Snape hissed in warning, "You've got to add the yew sap first, Potter. What are you trying to do?" Harry couldn't think of an answer that wouldn't infuriate the professor, so he only shrugged.

Snape made a sound of frustration as he asked rhetorically (or at least Harry assumed it was rhetorical, since he never knew the answer to any of Snape's questions), "Why do we add yew sap to this potion?" Unsurprising to either of them, Harry still had no answer, and so the professor continued on scathingly, "Potter! What are the properties of yew?"

Harry thought back to distant herbology lessons and tried to pull the hazy memories to mind. "Uh, well, yew is associated with the rune Eoh, right? So, um, it can—it's poisonous and…associated with death?”

Snape repeated the words as a biting taunt, "Yes, Potter, it's 'associated with death'. To be slightly more specific, though, it is associated with the transitive properties of death. As such, it can be used simply in poisons, but it is also used often in potions that require a trance-like state. For example, Veritaserum. It is also commonly used in potions that are associated with transformation. Now, Potter," he asked sardonically, "would not an Invisibility potion be a transformative potion?"

Harry nodded in embarrassment, mumbling, "Yes, sir. Though I hadn't thought of it that way."

Snape seemed slightly mollified, left on the back foot by Harry not even trying to fight back. "Yes, well, any second year worth his salt would have done. Now that you are so duly informed, could you tell me why it would not be prudent to add the thestral blood until after you've added the yew sap and allowed it to simmer properly?" When Harry continued to look blank, Snape sighed wearily. "Potter. How can I explain this to someone as thick as you? The yew has transformational properties. The thestral blood has invisibility properties. The order in which you add them is critical.

"Think of it as if you must first tell the potion what it's action is—in this case, to transform the imbiber in some way, by means of the yew—then to tell it the specifics of that action—to cause invisibility in the imbiber, by means of the thestral blood. As well as the other ingredients we will be adding. Can you even get your head around something as simplified as that?"

Suddenly it made much more sense to Harry, who'd never before thought about why you needed to add the ingredients to a potion in a special order. It all ends up a great mess in the same pot anyway, right? He didn't normally think about what the individual ingredients did either—he'd just followed the instructions set out for him. This might actually explain some of his less than stellar attempts at cooking, as much as his lack of success in potions class.

Snape must have spotted some sign of understanding on Harry's face because he went on in a slightly gentler (for Snape) tone of voice, now only sounding mildly vindictive as muttered, "It's honestly astounding you've made it this far without learning anything about potion brewing. But I suppose you did pass your O.W.L.s in order to make it into my N.E.W.T. class. You mustn't be completely hopeless."

* * *

ALTHOUGH HIS FRIENDS HAD BEEN horridly curious to hear how things had gone with Snape, Harry hadn't really known what to tell them after his private lesson. After all, it wasn't as if the feared Potions professor had been _nice_ or anything. But he hadn't been all that terrible either. Harry supposed that it might only be that he'd built up such a tolerance to Snape over the years that his present attitude seemed nearly pleasant in comparison. Still, the fact remained that Snape no longer attacked Harry for absolutely no reason in class, and in a most bizarre turn of events, the professor was actually treating Harry better than he treated Malfoy. That fact kept niggling at Harry's curiosity, since he couldn't make heads or tails of it.

Harry brought it up with his friends one morning over breakfast by asking, "So, have you guys noticed that things seem a bit odd with Malfoy this year?"

Ron stared at him incredulously, his expression aided by the piece of toast still hanging out of his open mouth. "Well, mate, I figure things have been a bit different for the little blighter since you got his dad packed off to prison. Maybe knocked him down a couple pegs, right?"

Hermione looked at Ron in disgust before turning to Harry. "There _has_ been an odd tension in Slytherin house this year. And perhaps,” she sent a scathing glare at Ron, who was now shoveling down the eggs as if they might disappear at any given moment, "just perhaps Ron is right." And indeed he was, as the tables magically cleared themselves, and he was left to bite down hard on his now sparkling clean fork. "It seems that Lucius Malfoy's absence has had greater repercussions around the school than we might have expected."

Twirling the quill she'd been using to make notes on her Arithmancy reading, Hermione admitted, "I've been wondering a bit about it myself. You both remember what happened in the hall last week? The day that we started the Veritaserum project? Well, ever since then I've been watching the Slytherins much more carefully." She looked away from the boys, packing her things back in her bag instead of meeting their eyes as they all go to their feet. "In fact, Pansy Parkinson has been trying to talk to me about it," she mentioned a bit too casually, eyes glancing up at last as Ron began to purple.

"You've been talking to _Pansy Parkinson?_ " he spat as if he thought this was some new level of idiocy. Hermione returned the glare he'd directed at her, and it seemed to Harry that stupid 'White Horses' charm that she'd roped him into the year before hadn't done the two of them any good.

"Look, I didn’t want to listen to her at first either. It’s not like she's pleasant or anything. But what she's been hinting at is starting to make sense." She lowered her voice, looking around them warily, "Ever since his father was convicted and ousted from his place in the Death Eaters, Malfoy's lost whatever clout he used to have. It seems there's been a split in Slytherin, between those still loyal to Malfoy and those who might like to take his place in Voldemort's ranks."

Harry asked her frankly, "Are you trying to suggest that _Draco Malfoy_ is now against Voldemort in some way?"

She shook her head at once. "No, not at all. All I'm saying is that while Malfoy still has his name and his money, he no longer has his friends in high places. He can't have his father try to sway the school governors or put pressure on Snape or bribe his way onto the Quidditch team any longer. And he certainly doesn't seem guaranteed a place in Voldemort's elite inner circle without his father's influence."

Ron threw up his hands. "I don't get why we are talking so much about Malfoy. I mean, he's _Malfoy_ , right? Anything bad for him _must_ be good for us."

Hermione didn't look so sure. She tried one more time to argue her point. "All I'm saying is that he might be looking at other options now." Harry didn't really understand why Hermione sounded so serious about this until weeks later, but some of their questions were certainly answered—though, only to be replaced with new ones—when Malfoy walked into the D.A. meeting later that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh lord, that was so long and rough! I think this must've been the longest chapter in this whole thing, looking back at the total page count. I've tried to fix it up a bit, but this beast was definitely a challenge to re-edit without simply scrapping the whole thing. (Or cutting out half of it, which it probably deserved, given the length.) But I'm trying to largely keep this the story that people remember, warts and all, and only update it to work a little better for modern sensibilities.
> 
> ...I think it gets better from here on out? At least it gets more fun when there is more Draco, and there will soon be a pretty constant stream of Draco and much less time solely in Harry's head.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 02**

HARRY HAD FELT SOMETHING CHANGING in him over the last few months. Things had felt like they were shifting, sliding around uneasily and trying to settle into some new configuration that could somehow fill the gaping hole left after Sirius's death. He'd felt a large piece fall heavily into place when the members of the Order of the Phoenix had come to see him off at the end of the previous year, showing him that perhaps he did still have a family after all. More little pieces settled around that one every time Ron threw a friendly arm around his shoulder or Hermione tutted over his homework and helped him fix his essays. But it was like a minor earthquake when Draco Malfoy walked into the D.A. meeting that night, the shock sending everything rattling and off-kilter again before it could fall back into a completely new arrangement with a crash so loud he was almost surprised no one else could hear it.

* * *

HARRY WOULD LATER BE QUITE impressed by the reaction of the D.A. members, when he remembered this pivotal moment. While he himself was still reeling, Neville, Luna, Dean, and Zacharias cried almost as one, "Stupefy!" The slender blond Slytherin was sent flying backward by the force of their curses and struck the stone wall hard before crumpling to the ground in a limp heap, and Harry vaguely remembered the teachers fretting over whether McGonagall would live after four Stunners had hit her the previous year. He could only try not to imagine the trouble the D.A. would face if they'd killed Draco Malfoy, even if he wasn't so popular these days.

The rest of the club stayed immobilized by shock as Harry hurried over to check that Malfoy was breathing. But luck was on his side (or against him, depending on how you looked at it), because the Slytherin was still among the living. Crouching in front of the blond in the thick silence and with his back to the others, Harry cast about desperately for what he ought to do next. Shooting a quick glance over his shoulder, he looked to Hermione in case she could jump in with some logical explanation that would make sense of all this, but she had gone unusually white, with her hands clasped over her mouth. Ron looked as if his synapses had simply imploded. He didn't even seem to register it when Harry straightened up and started speaking, never once shifting his dumbfounded stare away from Malfoy's unmoving figure.

"Everyone, stay calm. Good reaction time, by the way, to Neville, Dean, Luna, and Zacharias. Although, four Stunners might have been a bit too much, even for a git like Malfoy."

Dean muttered, "Ah, now we see the violence inherent in the system."

Harry started warningly, " _Dean_." The Muggleborn gave him a reassuring wink. None of the purebloods understood the Monty Python reference anyway. "But I think this means we're done here tonight. It seems I need to have a little talk with Malfoy here and figure out what's going on." There was quite a bit of disappointed muttering—surely every person in Hogwarts had wanted the poncy little ferret at their mercy for some indiscretion or another over the last five years. Well. Everyone seemed disappointed but Ron. He was still stuck staring at Malfoy as if his brain had failed to reboot.

Grumbling amongst themselves, the D.A. members started to gather their bags and discarded robes, slowly filtering out of the room. Many made scathing remarks as they passed Malfoy, and a couple even took the opportunity to literally kick the Slytherin while he was down. Hermione gently shook Ron and pulled him after her as she stopped in front of Harry. "We'd better stay with you, though, don't you think? It doesn't seem like a good idea to leave you alone with Malfoy."

Harry looked between the two of them. He really wouldn't have minded Hermione staying, but he knew Ron would only make things worse once he worked past his shock and awoke to the outraged fury and suspicion that would surely follow it. He would be throwing around accusations, and Malfoy would goad him, and pretty soon there would be more hexes flying around again. There'd be no chance of an actual conversation happening, and Harry had to admit that he was more than a little curious how Malfoy had ended up in the Room of Requirement. And why.

"It'll be fine," Harry insisted. He bent over the unconscious Slytherin and felt around in his pockets till he pulled out the wand he was used to seeing waved about beside him in Potions classes. "Look, he's unarmed now, and I'm not. There's nothing to worry about." Hermione still looked uneasy, so Harry gave her a little nudge toward the door with a smile. "Worst case, I'll just tie him up and dump him with Moaning Myrtle or something. Don't worry."

He pushed the two of them out of the large hall they used for their practice, and then Harry was left alone with Malfoy and finding himself reminded of the last time he'd ever seen the blond unconscious and defenseless like this.

* * *

IT HAD BEEN A STIFLING hot day in July when Tonks had come to pick Harry up for Sirius's funeral. The Dursleys had looked suspiciously at the young woman when she came to the door asking for Harry. Luckily, the metamorphmagus had dialed things down enough not to alienate Harry further from his relatives, and she'd been wearing a somber black suit that day, with her hair a thankfully normal black sheet, and a perfectly conservative face. Harry had come to meet her at the front door, wearing the most appropriate clothes he had, which happened to be his school uniform. Tonks had taken pity on him and transfigured his plain white button up into a soft black shirt, and as they'd walked out to the car together, they could have easily been taken for siblings with their two dark heads bent together and their rather delicate features drawn and white in pain.

The long car ride to London had been a quiet affair, and while Harry had been relieved to be with someone from the magical world again, it had only been dimly felt through his grief. Tonks had also been far more quiet than he was accustomed to, and he'd remembered that not only was she a member of the Order of the Phoenix but she was also one of the few remaining relatives of the Black family. She'd probably been the only member of the family who had seen Sirius since he'd escaped Azkaban. But as it turned out, all the surviving Black relations had come to the service, not just Tonks and her mother, Andromeda.

Harry hadn't known what to think at first, when he'd seen that familiar blond hair in the front row of chairs. He had broken free of Tonks and strode up to where Malfoy and his mother were sitting quietly, shocked to realize that Malfoy seemed to be dozing and wanting to either slap the boy or yell at him. Not only had his most hated schoolmate dared show up at his beloved godfather's memorial, but he was actually _sleeping_ through it. And then Narcissa Malfoy had held out her hand, lightly jostling the boy who was leaning against her shoulder as she did so.

"You must be Harry Potter. I don't believe we've ever been formally introduced. I am Narcissa Malfoy, née Black. I'm pleased to meet you at last, though I am sorry that it should be on an occasion such as this." Her voice had been measured and polite in an oddly formal way, but it was certainly more than he ever would have expected from any Malfoy. He remembered feeling bad in that moment for insulting the woman in the past just to get under her son's skin.

The boy in question had blinked awake, his eyelashes fluttering for a moment before he seemed to focus on Harry. His expression hadn't changed as he'd shifted his head slightly to look at his mother, taking in the fact that she had her hand wrapped around Harry's, before he'd turned back to the Boy Who Lived and nodded briefly. "Potter," he said softly, that brief greeting the only acknowledgement that they knew one another.

Harry had stared wide-eyed back at Malfoy, who'd had dark circles under his eyes and had been watching him warily as if afraid that Harry might make a scene. Then Tonks' mother had come up to him, placing a soft hand on Harry's shoulder, and he'd had no choice but to clear his throat, suddenly dry, and nod back. "Malfoy," he returned before turning his eyes back on the boy's mother, "and Mrs. Malfoy." He and Malfoy had stared at each other for the few minutes that Narcissa and Andromeda spoken in strained tones, each feeling distinctly uncomfortable about being so civil towards his rival.

It had only been after Harry had taken his seat with the Tonks family that he'd remembered that Narcissa was the one most responsible for Sirius's death and for the empty coffin on display that day.

* * *

NOW MALFOY WAS ONCE AGAIN lying unconscious in front of Harry, though for very different reasons. In all their fights so far this year, neither had brought up their meeting at the funeral or the unspoken truce they'd briefly shared. Not wanting to wait for however long it would take Malfoy to wake naturally, Harry revived him with Ennervate and watched for a second time as those unreadable grey eyes focused on him, framed by a thicket of pale lashes. As if in some parody of the encounter that was still at the fore of Harry's thoughts, and perhaps Malfoy's as well, the blond raised an eyebrow and greeted him with "Potter."

Taking his cue from the Slytherin who was still sprawled rather uncomfortably against the wall, Harry nodded grimly and spat out, "Malfoy. How's your mother these days?"

Malfoy's lips quirked up in an ironic smile. "She's just fine. And your parents, Potter? Still dead, are they?"

Harry's expression became even grimmer, and he twirled Malfoy's wand in his left hand to get the other boy's attention. Malfoy's own hand flew to the pocket where he usually kept his wand, before he raised furious eyes back to Harry's face, looking like he wanted to snarl something insulting at the Gryffindor.

"You know I don't trust you, Malfoy," Harry chided him, pocketing his own wand so he could hold Malfoy's in both hands and bend it experimentally. The blond started forward in alarm, but he froze when Harry held up a hand in warning. "Yew, huh?" Harry remarked. "It's holly for me."

Draco made an effort not to look shocked when the git used the unfamiliar wand to neatly transfigure one of the nearby silk cushions into a hard wooden chair. The dark-haired boy waved toward it, and Draco picked himself up off the ground and sat himself gingerly upon the wood that hadn't existed moments before.

Harry was still twirling the pale wand in his fingers, surprised at how inflexible it was. It made a good wand for transfiguration, not that Harry could remember Malfoy having any particular skill in that branch of magic. As he watched, his unexpected guest relaxed back with more of his usual poise and offered up a mocking smile. "So you don't trust me, Potter? Well, damn. I'm hurt. No wait, maybe that's from being on the receiving end of four Stunning spells."

He gave a wince that might not have been all that exaggerated, and Harry caught himself nearly smiling back. Malfoy was obnoxious, but it did take some kind of style to be thrown into a wall and knocked unconscious, then lounge about afterward as if it had all been part of the master plan. Speaking of which. "What do you think you're doing here, Malfoy?"

The blond examined his buffed nails, picking off some imaginary speck of dirt. "Probably bleeding horribly in my internal parts, soon to shuffle off this mortal coil. But at least I'll take you Gryffindors down with me. Even you, Wonder Boy, couldn't get away with the murder most foul of a fellow classmate. " He said all this airily and then, seeing the vein twitching in Harry's cheek, he heaved a sigh as if he were the one being put upon by crashing the D.A. meeting.

"If you _must_ know, Potter, and evidently you _must..._ " He examined Harry through a fringe of silvery hair as he drawled, "I just happened to be out patrolling the halls: prefect duty and all, you know how it is. Well, no, you wouldn't, would you? Not being chosen as a prefect and all."

He smiled sharply, and Harry smiled just as sharply back, showing that darker side that he rarely let out in front of others. "I'm not sure you really want to find out just whether or not I can get away with murder, Malfoy."

The blond only raised an eyebrow at this statement, muttering under his breath as if speaking to himself, "And no wonder you weren't chosen as prefect, with an attitude like that." Uncrossing his legs once to switch his left leg to the top, he studied the Gryffindor in front of him. "But as I was saying. I got quite bored with my patrolling and had been loitering up and down the seventh floor corridor, pondering to myself just what to do about the current fiasco in Slytherin house when, lo and behold, a door suddenly appeared to my much astonished right. And, of course, I opened it to find myself the happy recipient of a whole array of violent spells, and I think you know the story from there, Potter. Curiosity killed the kneazle and all that."

Harry eyed Malfoy for a moment before declaring, "You are a horrid liar, Malfoy." The blond narrowed his eyes but before he could retort, Harry had continued. "No, really. I mean, that's just awful. It's almost as bad as your hippogriff story back in third year. You make up these stupid exaggerated stories that no one could really fall for. At least, no one who knows you."

If looks could kill, Harry would be a super-concentrated ghost with how many times over Malfoy's glare would have caused him to expire on the spot. "You think you know me, Potter?" the Slytherin hissed, leaning forward as he readied himself for a fight.

Harry was about to snap back when he remembered that Malfoy must have come for a reason and that reason was what he should be focusing on. "I take it back, Malfoy. You can lie when you need to, but when you don't really care whether people believe you or not, you're absolutely shit at it. So, why don't you care if I believe your silly little tale? Why are you really here? Are you spying for the other Slytherins? Or for Voldemort? Are you trying to play both sides? Or are you just a coward and trying to get in on the winning side now?"

Malfoy leaned back in his chair again, arms crossed over his chest as he examined Harry appreciatively. "You think that _yours_ is the winning side, Potter? Keep dreaming."

He kept nattering on with more insults, but Harry wasn't even listening, instead replaying their conversation in his head. "How many times have you called me 'Potter' in the last ten minutes?" he interrupted the blond's tirade to ask all of a sudden.

Malfoy startled at the non sequitur before his face creased into a confused scowl. "What are you on about now?" He waved one thin hand in the air, as if he could brush the question aside. "The point is, Pot—" He broke off before he could even finish the name.

"It's ridiculous," Harry said. "I don't know that I've ever noticed before because I don't think we've ever spoken this long without someone throwing a punch or a curse by now. But we completely abuse one another's surnames."

"You know, you're actually right about something, Potter," Malfoy said with a grin, not even bothering to try to keep himself from using the name again. "I suppose there's a first time for everything." Satisfied with the dark look Harry aimed at him, he went on. "Well, I imagine its because being you is so terrible that calling you by your name is practically an insult on its own. And of course being a Malfoy is so enviable a position that you calling me that is akin to you calling me 'your grace' or a similar title of your choice."

Now it was Harry's turn to scowl as he retorted, "Ugh, you wish. You are such a prat, _Draco_. So get to the point. What are you really doing here?"

Malfoy looked horrified and stared at Harry like he'd started hissing in Parseltongue, "You'd better not be expecting me to call you 'Harry' or any such—oh, god _damn_ it. Now you went and made me say it." The blond let out a heartfelt string of curses, before running a hand through his fair hair and rearranging himself in the chair that Harry had created, drawing his composure around himself again like a thick cloak. "Fine then. If you've seen through my artfully created deceit, then I have no choice but to level with you. I'm willing to make a deal."

When the other boy didn't interrupt this time, Draco continued with an air of benediction, "I will do you the favor of joining your silly little club and even allow you to teach me any useful tricks you might know. In return, all I'll ask of you is that our arrangement not become common knowledge. Though I know it would be hard not to brag to others, as having me as a member would hugely increase your popularity."

Snorting in laughter, Harry agreed with the other boy, "You're right. It would be hard not to brag about how Draco Malfoy came crawling up to me, Harry Potter, asking to join my little Light club and wanting me to teach him how to fight. Get out of here, Malfoy, if you think I'm going to fall for that."

Harry really should have learned to heed that dangerous gleam in Draco's eye sometime over the last five years. It always meant the Slytherin was about to do something spiteful, quite probably against the rules, and definitely painful to Harry or his friends. This time it meant that Harry found his breath cut off as Malfoy flung him into the wall with just a sweep of his empty hand. The blond stalked over to stand above Harry as his eyelids fluttered open to show dazed emerald irises.

"Don't go thinking you'd be teaching me all that much," Draco hissed in that hated face, figuring he had already ruined whatever chance at success he had for the night. "How do _you_ like it then?" he asked, gesturing to Harry's sprawled position, which was much like that which he'd found himself in when he'd been revived. Then he picked up his wand, which Harry had dropped when he'd been thrown back, and turned to leave.

"Wait." Harry's croaking voice stilled the other boy's hand as it reached for the door handle. "Show me how you did that, Malfoy, and I'll teach you my ‘little tricks'."

* * *

"YOU DID _WHAT?!_ "

RON'S HYSTERICAL exclamation cut across the din in the Gryffindor common room, his voice cracking as it hadn't in years. Ignoring the curious looks from their housemates, Harry tried to shush Ron. He'd been expecting a reaction like this, which was why he'd only told a very edited version of what had really occurred after the D.A. members had left him with Malfoy. Apparently he should have edited even more out of the story.

Harry winced as Ron continued his rant. "Let me make sure I have this straight. You made a deal with Malfoy? Draco Malfoy, the bane of our existence, the personification of all things git-like, the bastard we thought was Slytherin's heir, _Malfoy?_ You're going to teach him how to fight, so that he can betray you and then kill us all with the spells you so kindly taught him?! And come on, this is the D.A.! You can't have a Malfoy in Dumbledore's army, it's—it's—it's just wrong!"

Harry hadn't bristled up until that last comment, but hearing the phrase 'Dumbledore's army' pushed him over the edge, causing him to snap waspishly at Ron in a way he wouldn't have normally done. "I'm not teaching him anything of the sort, Ron. How stupid do you think I am?" Ron looked like he was more than willing to elaborate if given the chance, but Hermione set a placating hand on his arm with a hushing noise. He jerked around to stare at her instead, his face a mix of shock and betrayal.

"Look, Ron..." Harry sighed. "I'm not teaching him anything that could be used against us. It's all Light magic: summoning a Patronus, how to make Dark Detectors, that sort of thing. And he's not going to be a member of the D.A.—not by a long shot. Do you think I'd trust him as far as that? I'll meet him one-on-one. He'll teach me what I want to know, and I'll teach him whatever I choose to."

Ron snorted, sounding plenty skeptical as he told best friend, "As if Malfoy doesn't already know every dirty trick in the book. Besides, do you even think it's safe, Harry? It hasn't even been two weeks since the Muggle Relations Massacre." Hermione's hand dropped limply to her side at the reminder.

The Muggle Relations office had been completely destroyed, blown out from the building that housed the Ministry of Magic. There had been nothing but charred scraps left of both the office and its staff. Many of the remains hadn't even been identifiable. There simply wasn't that much left of the former staff after the Death Eaters were finished. But it had become evident in the investigations that followed that—although the Muggleborns and half-bloods had died violently as well—it had been the purebloods in the office who'd actually suffered the worst.

The message had been clear and easy to decipher: Lord Voldemort would punish those who disgraced the Wizarding world and chose to identify with Muggles, especially if they were among the class he considered better and worthy. Needless to say, any surviving members of the Muggle Relations office had immediately put in requests for transfer or had submitted their resignations. The action was repeated all throughout the Ministry in any department that dealt at all with the Muggle world.

But accusing Malfoy of being related to the massacre seemed a bit over-blown, even for Harry's short-tempered best friend. "Come now, Ron, you can't really be suggesting that Malfoy had anything to do with the Massacre, can you?"

Ron floundered for a moment, stuttering, "Well, no. Not specifically. But you know as well as I, Harry, that he would've if he'd had the chance!"

The dark-haired boy shook his head, taking off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. This was really starting to give him a headache. "Ron, I'm just using Malfoy for any knowledge he has that could help me or the D.A., then I'll get rid of him again. I still don't trust him at all. Though someone must've. Someone told him about the meeting."

Hermione glanced up at him, her wide chocolate eyes seeming over-large in her pale face. "But I thought...I thought you said he—he told you he just happened by the room..." she said in an odd voice. "You think that one of the members told him about the D.A.?"

Harry glanced at her questioningly before answering. "Yes, Hermione. Someone told him about the room and the meeting, although they didn't fully understand how the Room of Requirement works. It can't be used for more than one purpose at a time. Dobby told me a long time ago. So if I were in there when it was the D.A. room, because I wanted a place to practice, and Ron were to come by with a sudden yen for blood-flavored lollipops—" He was cut off by the ginger-haired boy's sound of disgust and continued with a grin, "The room wouldn't be able to cancel me out to have Ron open the door and find a room full of sweets. Neither can it combine the two somehow, so that I would suddenly find myself sparring with a giant blood-flavored lolly. If the room is occupied, it won't reveal itself to anyone else unless they are looking specifically for what it's occupied with.

"I imagine whoever told Malfoy didn't want anyone else to find out that they had. I mean, who would want to own up to letting Malfoy in? So they helped him come up with this plausible enough sounding story of coincidence, not knowing that the room can't appear by coincidence." Harry had badgered Malfoy about it, but the Slytherin hadn't been willing to give up who had told him about the meeting that night.

Ron had his own ideas, though, of how Malfoy had come to disrupt their lives. "You're also ignoring the likelihood that Malfoy—evil little git that he is—blackmailed or threatened one of the members to tell him about the D.A. meeting. You know what I bet? I bet Snape taught him how to do that Legilimency crap even!"

Hermione interjected here, reminding Ron that Snape wasn't even acting civil to Malfoy at the present, let alone teaching him any powerful magic. Logic didn't slow him down, though, as he steamed ahead, "I wouldn't be surprised if that was all a ploy to get at us, too! Throw us off his scent, that's what. It's a sure thing that he used some Dark magic or something to find us out."

Harry had to admit that it was possible, but... "Don't you think someone would have told us if they got threatened or attacked by Malfoy?"

"Well, that's why he used a Memory charm on them!"

Ron was ready to denounce Malfoy completely, but Hermione acted as the voice of reason, as usual. Even she was beginning to sound exasperated at the redhead's theories. "Ron, listen to yourself. Even I don't want to admit that Malfoy could actually be, well, _decent_ in any way. But you're just grasping at straws! Whoever let Malfoy know about the D.A. must have had a reason. Besides, if we could get him on our side, he could be a powerful ally. He is poised perfectly to spy on our enemies."

Glad to let Hermione end the conflict peaceably, Harry made agreeable noises—although he didn't really think there was any chance of Malfoy spying for them, even if he could be coerced over to their side. He wasn't even sure he would want Malfoy on their side.

* * *

BUT HARRY DIDN'T FULLY REALIZE just how much Malfoy had risked in his crazy attempt until after his weekly visit with Madam Pomfrey. He would have normally met with Snape on a Monday evening, but the Potions Master was away on 'business', which Harry took to mean that he had been summoned to a Death Eater meeting. The matron of the hospital wing had plenty of work to be done on any night, so his private lessons had been rearranged, and she'd set him to healing the minor cuts and bruises of anyone who came into the Hospital Wing.

Pomfrey sniffed as they made their rounds, "Too bad you weren't here last night, Mr. Potter. You could have got some real practice with the mess that Draco Malfoy made of himself." She glared at Harry, and for a moment he feared that she somehow knew his involvement in Malfoy's injuries. But then she continued, "That boy is in here almost as often as you. And he came high near killing himself last night. Would have, too, if I weren't highly trained to spot magical maladies."

This time Harry didn't bother to hide his shock at Pomfrey's words. "What do you mean," he exclaimed, "Malfoy nearly killed himself last night?"

Madame Pomfrey made him get to work mending broken bones on a practice dummy back in her office before she lowered herself into her chair to explain more fully. "Oh, Mr. Malfoy came in all bruised and shaking, due to a 'Quidditch accident'—or so he would have had me believe. As if I wouldn't recognize the effects of a Stunning spell!"

She shook her head at the foolishness of students who thought they could pull the wool over her eyes. "As Mr. Malfoy is _not_ a trained mediwizard, he did not realize the potentially fatal side affects that can arise from falling victim to Stunning." Seeing that Harry had stopped in his ministrations, she gestured for him to continue. She hoped her young charge's sudden fascination with medical magic wasn't prompted solely by his animosity towards the Malfoy boy. "There aren't many people who understand the real nature of the Stunning spell," she sniffed again, and her disdain for wizards flinging about spells they didn't understand was clear. "Stunning puts a halt not just to the limbs of a body. It momentarily stops _all_ the functions of your body, and it is this shock to your system that causes the unconsciousness that people ill-educated about the spell associate with Stupefy.

"Of courses, if you are hit with just one spell, there are normally no further complications, unless you already had some other affliction or weakness. But when hit with multiple spells, as Mr. Malfoy obviously was, the body cannot always naturally recover. The major organs begin to shut down, which puts too much strain on the heart as it belabors to pump blood. Clinically, the heart is not pumping enough blood—and with it, oxygen—to the extremities, so the victim begins to lose feeling, starting in the hands and feet before spreading through the body. Then hysteria often sets in, as the brain loses its source of oxygen, which is compounded by hyperventilation and a feeling of suffocation as the cells of the lungs themselves begin to wither from asphyxiation and—Mr. Potter! You're looking dreadful. Are you all right? Dear me, I had no idea you were so squeamish."

She pushed him down into one of the chairs as he battled with his own feelings of suffocation. For all the joking the night before, he hadn't thought that they might have actually killed the smarmy git. If Madam Pomfrey hadn't been in or hadn't been so good at what she did...

Harry pushed himself out of the chair with a hasty, unintelligible excuse and rushed out of the hospital wing, throwing apologies back over his shoulder as he went. He dashed through the nearly deserted corridors, but no one paid him much heed. Harry Potter was always rushing about to spoil the Dark Lord's newest plan or save a kitten from a burning building or some such rubbish, after all. He didn't stop till he reached the seemingly blank stretch of corridor that he knew hid the entrance to the Slytherin common room, far into the catacombs of the castle that stretched under the lake. Then he banged on the wall several times, before leaning over to catch his breath.

After a couple moments, the well-hidden door ground open, and Harry heard a sharp intake of breath. He peered up through his unruly black hair and saw Blaise Zabini staring at him in shocked silence. "Potter, what the fuck...?"

Harry gasped out between ragged breaths, "Get Malfoy. I need to kick his bony ass." He tried to ignore the stabbing pains in his side, but he still couldn't straighten up completely.

Blaise gaped for another moment, then his dark eyes lit up as he drawled, "Normally I wouldn't oblige a Gryffindor, but this should be worth it."

With perfect timing, Harry heard Malfoy's cold voice and saw him striding across the room through the view he had under Blaise's arm. "Zabini, what are you doing? If someone's forgotten the password, leave them out there to freeze, for Salazar's sake."

Blaise turned to reveal Harry, and the blond's bewilderment was apparent for a moment, before his face froze into a mask of outrage.

"You've got a visitor, Malfoy." That was all Blaise said as he waited, smirking, for Draco to stride forcefully across their common room.

The furious boy shoved Harry out of the door frame and back into the dark corridor as he growled, "Potter. What the fuck do you want? Looking for a fight?"

Harry glared back at him as he regained his footing and replied in a similar tone to the one Draco had used, "Yes, that's exactly what I'm looking for."

Malfoy noticed the avid Slytherins in his common room and slammed the door in their faces before dragging Harry roughly down the hall.

Harry was actually a bit surprised by this raging Malfoy, who seemed much harsher than the obnoxious but joking boy of the night before. Maybe almost dying did that to a person.

"Just what the hell do you think you're doing here, Potter? I can't even begin to imagine how you knew where the entrance to the Slytherin common room was."

Harry snorted and told Malfoy, "Oh, do get over yourself. Hell, I've even been in the Slytherin common room before. _Subausculto signum_." His whispered incantation sent a little blue ball of light whizzing around the corridor before zooming back to his wand, signifying that they were free from eavesdroppers.

Malfoy loosened up a bit when he saw this display, but he said grimly, "You're going to have to do better than that if you want to ensure privacy in Slytherin territory."

Following his words, Malfoy pulled his wand to cast a high level Notice-Me-Not spell that encased he and Harry in a soundproof bubble which any prying eyes would slide over without seeing them.

"Nice one, Malfoy," Harry remarked. "Devious and yet obvious—just like you. You'll have to teach it to me sometime."

Malfoy wasn't about to be sidetracked by any left-handed compliments, though. He rounded back on the Gryffindor, crowding the other boy towards the wall. "I sincerely hope for your sake, Potter, that you didn't come down here just to compare spell work," he hissed scathingly. "If you did, you will find yourself with your wand shoved so far into your personage that even Pomfrey couldn't remove it."

Harry winced at the image before saying, "I've actually just come from Madam Pomfrey, and she was telling me a bit about your own escapades last night."

Malfoy blinked, then said disbelievingly, "And...what? You were driven here by your overwhelming concern for my health and my undeniably alluring body? I know I'm the sexiest bloke at Hogwarts, but there's no need to get yourself worked up." He leered at Harry. "Even if I died, you still wouldn't even come in a close second. Come to think of it, even dead I could probably retain my title..."

Now this was more like the Malfoy that Harry had begun to expect, using his sharp smiles as weapons that cut into you like blades with their cold beauty and making claims so outrageous that you could do nothing but shake your head in disbelief.

But why _had_ Harry rushed down here to the Slytherin's lair? Surely it was only the guilt he would have felt as a Gryffindor if he'd somehow caused Malfoy's death. Not because he cared what happened to Malfoy, of course. But his actual friends would've been in a good deal of trouble if they'd truly murdered the git.

"Oh, how noble of you," Malfoy snorted when he heard this. "Piss off, if that's all you wanted to say. I'm obviously alive. I'm not going to rat you idiots out, as long as our deal is still on. So get lost, while I go do damage control and tell all the snarling Slytherins how I mopped the hall with your sorry arse for daring to show up in front of our common room." He brightened for a moment, suggesting, "It would be so much more convincing if I could bloody you up a bit, maybe even knock you out?"

When Harry denied any possibility of _that_ happening, Malfoy gave an easy shrug. "Scurry away then, little Gryffindor." He smiled savagely before growling, "Else I might be tempted to do it anyway."

And Harry, shaking his head in disbelief, started off just as Malfoy had told him to do, ignoring the blond calling after him: "And don't think I didn't notice your claim to have been in the Slytherin common room, Potter! I'll get the truth out of you yet!"

* * *

HARRY WONDERED A BIT, THOUGH, as he wandered back toward the Gryffindor section of the castle, about the swinging extremes of Malfoy's personality. In front of the other Slytherins, and when Harry had first arrived, Malfoy had been very much the boy that Harry known and hated all these years. Perhaps even more so than that boy, he'd acted cold and harsh, quick to anger. But when it was just the two of them, on those few brief encounters when it had been just the two of them, he was beginning to notice glimpses of a different Draco Malfoy.

When they'd parted ways, Harry had looked back over his shoulder after Malfoy's last shouted comment in time to see Malfoy slip back into one of his cold masks—which had seemed like some bizarre parody after the bright, painful smiles he'd been flashing at Harry as they argued. The blond's face had gone blank and aloof, schooled to show just a hint of a triumphant smirk, the telling satisfaction in his eyes that would convince his housemates that he'd just come from thoroughly trouncing his rival for showing his face in Slytherin territory.

It wasn't as if Malfoy had been nice to Harry or even pleasant—not by any imaginable definition of the word. But he seemed somehow more real when they were alone. Gone for a time was Slytherin's ice prince, who seemed to be made up of equal parts disdain and thoughtless cruelty. That Malfoy seemed more like a caricature of a villain than a real person, and he'd only retreated further behind that untouchable shell as they'd gotten older. Harry had never before thought about what kind of life could mold a boy into such an emotionless statue—he wouldn't want to end up actually feeling something so soft as pity towards the Slytherin. But when he was teasing and smirking at Harry, making the Gryffindor feel every inch as awkward as he was, then Malfoy seemed like a real person. A real annoying person, that is.

Harry wondered how many other people knew about this second Malfoy. He certainly hadn't acted any different in N.E.W.T. Potions that afternoon, despite their surreal tête-à-tête the previous night. He'd given no sign at all that they'd even seen each other since the class's last meeting the past Wednesday. The only sign Harry that hadn't imagined the entire encounter had come when Malfoy had, with the slightest evil glint in his eye, sent a piece of kelpie flesh scuttling across the table to land in Harry's lap. It was a close thing, and if anyone had been watching they would have assumed that Malfoy had merely flicked the raw lump of meat at his partner in one their usual arguments. Only someone as close as Harry would've been able to see that Malfoy hadn't physically touched the chunk of kelpie at all. And no one else would have known that Malfoy was baiting Harry with his dexterity at wandless magic, unless they'd been privy to their conversation in the D.A. room the night before.

 _Poncy git_ , he thought to himself as he recalled the incident. _Probably didn't want to get his hands dirty with the rancid evil-horse flesh._ Harry had been forced by Hermione to run up to the Gryffindor dorms on their break between classes, because the stench had been so potent.

Malfoy had gotten yelled at by Snape for interrupting the lecture, and Harry had been disconcerted to get away without a single insult or point taken, even though he'd been the one who had jumped up with an—it had to be said—unmanly yelp when the lump of cold, wet tissue had landed on him. Snape's new attitude still made Harry uneasy, but Malfoy had seemed unconcerned by the verbal abuse his head of house heaped on him. Harry could only hope that his own head of house would never turn on him, because McGonagall was scary enough when she was on his side.

Shaking his head at the thought, Harry arrived at the Fat Lady's portrait and let himself in with Hermione's new password, "Widdershins." He spotted the bushy-haired prefect easily, as the common room was unusually empty for the hour. It wasn't even that late yet. He threw himself into the chair opposite hers with a tired groan.

Hermione had seemed pleased the last couple of days, since she'd been getting on with Ron quite well. Their ginger friend was still furious about the situation with Malfoy and the D.A. meeting, and he'd taken to glaring more potently than ever at the boy with the mocking silver eyes. Hermione had listened to his irate complaining, though, and soothingly murmured something that might be taken as agreement, while only occasionally trying to remind him that people could change for the better. Or at least, for the slightly more neutral, in Malfoy's case.

In return, Ron had been heard to comment in wonderment about just how _good_ of a person Hermione must be, to even think about giving a bastard like Malfoy a second chance. He'd been looking a lot more appreciative about her constant presence than he sometimes had the previous year.

But tonight Hermione looked far away and hadn't even greeted Harry when he came to sat with her. In fact, her eyes looked rather red and puffy. _Oh no, what had Ron done now?_ Casting for a benign topic of conversation, Harry leaned his head back and said, "You wouldn't believe what I heard tonight, Hermione."

She gasped and seemed to notice him for the first time. Her lip was trembling and her eyes seemed over bright as she whispered, "You—you've already heard, Harry?" He felt a quick stab of cold in his stomach, wondering how she could have known about Malfoy's brush with death at their hands. There couldn't be something else, could there?

He said bracingly, "Well, yeah, Madam Pomfrey told me all about it during our session. But don't look so worried, the stupid git is fine."

Hermione blinked at him in confusion, tears trembling on her eyelashes. She said to him, voice thin with incomprehension, "Who's fine, Harry? You mean—someone made it out alive?"

The cold feeling swept back into Harry, causing his fingers to still from where they'd been nervously fraying the trim on the dusty gold pillow in his lap. He asked her slowly, "Hermione, what are you talking about?"

"The attack, Harry! The attack on the school!" she cried, sounding hoarse.

"The school? Wha—someone attacked Hogwarts? When?" He watched, horrified, as his friend wrapped her arms around herself. He was taken aback by how small she looked. Hermione had always been skinny, but now she looked like a little girl, hidden within her too large robes and her wild mass of hair. He felt like he ought to go over to her, hug her, take her hands, do _something_. But he couldn't seem to move.

"No, no, Harry, the primary school. I thought you'd heard? Voldemort, he...he destroyed an entire primary school." Hermione was staring unseeing at her own lap. "The staff, the teachers, the children... Oh my god, all the children..."

Harry felt everything fading around him. His vision was dancing with dark spots while his hands went numb. Was this what it felt like to suffocate under the weight of the Stunning spells? It was like when you stood up too quickly from sleep. That must be it—he must be sleeping. It's just a dream. A nightmare. _Wake up, Harry!_

But Hermione cut through the buzzing in his ears, choking on her own whispered words, "The children were all murdered. Harry, hundreds of people are dead."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 03**

WHY COULDN'T HARRY WAKE UP from this nightmare? He wanted to wake up and find that the past year had all been a fantasy—nothing more than a cruel construct of his mind. Voldemort wasn't back. Cedric wasn't dead. _Sirius_ wasn't dead. Dean and half the other Muggleborns at Hogwarts weren't really leaving the school. He would wake up and tumble down into the vibrant, crowded common room where Ron and Dean would be arguing about football versus Quidditch, Hermione would be laughing in exasperation, and maybe Sirius would even pop in for a conversation through the fireplace...

The reality of it was that the Gryffindor common room was oddly echoing and gloomy, and the group who wended their way down to the Great Hall for Dumbledore's speech was subdued and quiet, huddled together as if that would disguise the absence of those who weren't with them. But as they went to take their seats at the long house tables, most sat in their usual spots, which left empty gaps where the missing should have been. There were only a few of these holes at the heads of the tables, where the upper levels sat, compared to the decimated ranks of the younger years. Yet those few absences cut much deeper, as the teens who had sat there had all grown together from children into young adults over the past five and six and seven years.

There was no single reason to explain why the various students weren't present for the speech. Some were Muggleborn and were even now contacting their families to arrange for their escape back into the relative safety and anonymity of the Muggle world. Some were half-bloods but leaving for similar reasons. A disturbingly large group of those absent had lost family members and friends in the attack, and then there were those students who had abstained from the school-wide announcements to comfort their grieving friends and classmates. Voldemort had chosen his target well.

Dumbledore was at the front of the room, addressing the students from behind the staff table as he would have at any feast. He surveyed the four house tables laid out before him and the sea of angry and fearful faces turned to him for direction.

The Gryffindors, who were so stubbornly leaving spaces for their absent housemates.

The Hufflepuffs, whose table was the least populated, with a great many of its members choosing loyally to stay in their house with their friends who were in pain.

The Ravenclaws, who were almost all in attendance, looking for any new information that the headmaster could give them about the horrific events of the previous day.

And the Slytherins...

Well, the Slytherins were a rather more complicated group. Some had come out of genuine concern, but not many. Others appeared to have come merely to gloat and scoff at their fellow students and at the staff. A similar number had, or so it seemed, stayed away to give a different message. A message of disregard towards Dumbledore and what he had to say. A declaration of just where they stood in this war.

Dumbledore noted that Draco Malfoy was still seated among his small remaining court, consisting primarily of Miss Parkinson, Mr. Crabbe, and Mr. Goyle. While the young Malfoy employed his usual aloof expression, Blaise Zabini had arrayed against him his own ruling party—consisting of himself, Miss Bulstrode, and Miss Davis. Yes, Slytherin house was quite complicated these days.

The old wizard cleared his throat, looking somber and drawing the attention of the assembled students, who fell into silence almost at once. In a carrying voice, he told the gathered students, "I thank you all for turning out this morning. Though there is of course no grudge held against those who are not present. As I know you are all aware, it has become undeniable that Voldemort launched an attack yesterday on both the Muggle world and the Wizarding world."

The usual small tempest of gasps and cries went through the crowd when he used the Dark Lord's name, but even that was quieter than usual this day. 

"Madame Pratchett's School for the Gifted was a well-known and respected primary school for both Muggles and Wizardingkind alike. Because Muggles attended the school as well, this incident has been reported in their news and has been quite accurately described as the heinous act of a terrorist group calling themselves the 'Death Eaters'. For those of you who may not have heard the term 'terrorist' before, it is a word that the Muggles use to describe people who use violence and intimidation in order to further their ideologies, hoping to 'terrorize' others into submission. The name 'Death Eaters' is of course the moniker that Voldemort's most loyal servants have taken upon themselves."

Many looked ill at Dumbledore's frank description of the Dark Lord and his supporters. There was also a hushed wave of questioning among the Muggleborns (and even from some students born into Wizarding families) about Madame Pratchett's curious school. Noticing this, Dumbledore explained, "If you are not familiar with the Madame's former establishment, it was a most fine institute. Although many Wizarding children—as were many of you, I'm sure—are taught at home or in informal classes, many also attend schools such as the former Madame's, which welcome also those of mixed heritage, squibs, and regular Muggle children as well. These Muggle children do not realize the extraordinary abilities of some of their classmates and often live in areas so highly-populated by wizards that they are accustomed to explaining away strange happenings."

As he turned back to the dark events of the previous day, Dumbledore's voice grew heavy once again. "As you have all heard, I am distraught to have to confirm that there were no survivors from the attack. Voldemort and his coconspirators heartlessly dispatched every student and staff member. The most recent report is that three hundred and sixty-eight individuals died in the attack. Hogwarts sends our sympathy to the families and loved-ones of the victims. I would like to ask you all to bow your heads with us together, as we give a moment of silence to honor these poor souls." Even the Slytherins didn't dare say anything as the entire hall fell into a hushed reverence beneath the dark clouds that roiled in the enchanted ceiling.

The headmaster waited nearly a minute before continuing. "The effects of such an attack will surely echo through the world, and even here at Hogwarts, they cannot be ignored. Many of your fellow students will be leaving us, either of their own volition or by the wishes of their families. The Hogwarts Express will be making a special unscheduled trip this Saturday to take those leaving back to London. Yet I assure all of you that Hogwarts will remain safe and will always be a haven for those who desire her protection." If any of the students thought it odd that he was watching the Slytherin table as he said this, they didn't ponder it long. Their hearts and minds were too bowed with grief to consider much else. "Do not fear for your safety while you are within these walls. Hogwarts will not fall."

* * *

THE GRYFFINDOR SIXTH YEARS HAD been huddled in front of the entrance to the boys' dormitories for a number of minutes, jostling one another and hissing threats, before Harry was finally shoved forward by Lavender as their representative. Catching himself before his face smashed into the door, he raised a fist and—hesitating only a few more seconds—rapped on the wood. "Dean?" he called out softly. "You in there, mate?"

The question was met with silence, and Harry had just turned back to his year mates to ask what to do next when a wan Seamus pulled open the door in front of them. He motioned them all inside before turning away to return to his seat on the bed across from Dean's, avoiding looking his best friend in the eye.

The Gryffindors all trooped in silently, and while the girls would have normally made disparaging comments about the untidiness of the boys' dormitory, they didn't bother on an occasion such as this. The conversation was stilted, as no one wanted to be the first to bring up the real reason they were all there. Hermione was the first to dare broach the subject, and she asked hesitantly if Dean knew how he was getting home.

The quiet, artistic Gryffindor nodded, his dark head bowed. "Yeah, my mum and dad will be at King's Cross."

He didn't elaborate any further, and the conversation died for a moment. The silence was only broken when Seamus burst out in frustration, "Damn it! Why did You-Know-Who have to come back?!"

Harry looked away quickly, afraid the guilt would show on his face. After the article last year, everyone else knew and surely remembered his part in bringing back the Dark Lord. If he'd been able to stop that ceremony or fight off Wormtail or even not been so eager to win the stupid Cup, none of this might have happened.

" _Seamus!_ " Ron hissed at the Irish boy under his breath, but it was all too loud in the silent room. He turned to Harry, the smile on his face forced and painful even to look at. "Don't even think about it, Harry. You know Seamus didn't mean it like that. It's just—well—"

Before Ron could even think of anything more to say, everyone was suddenly piping in, trying to cheer Harry up. He felt wretched. They were supposed to be here to make Dean feel better, but somehow he'd become to center of attention without even meaning to. But everyone seemed more at ease trying to tease Harry out of his bad mood. At least living with The Boy Who Lived was something they were all quite practiced at, whereas saying good-bye to a friend, possibly forever, wasn't something any of them had needed to do before now. The empty platitudes and assurances that he would be able to beat You-Know-Who in no time only made it worse for Harry, though, and he gritted his teeth harder and harder the longer it went on. He was about to explode in anger when he caught sight of the Black boy.

Dean Thomas was smiling at him serenely, his dark eyes shining as he watched his year mates act exactly as was normal for them, rambunctious and noisy as they spoke over one another about all the times Harry had pulled off some great feat or another. Harry felt the anger dying in him as he realized that maybe this _was_ what Dean needed. Maybe he needed someone else to be the center of attention, lest he break down in front of his long-time friends. Maybe it was Dean who most needed the pretense that nothing had changed.

Happy not to return to the topic of the Hogwarts Express or Dean's escape to the Muggle world, the Gryffindors carried on with more and more outrageous speculation about how the Boy Who Lived would be sure to beat You-Know-Who again—because if anyone could beat Voldemort, it was Harry. Or so they tried to convince him, while Harry let himself sink numbly under the weight of their familiar litany, somewhere so deep he wouldn't even have to listen to the words. _Maybe this really is what they all need_ , he thought to himself, just before he heard Lavender give a fastidious sniff and exclaim, "God, this room is filthy. Don't you boys _ever_ clean?"

* * *

HARRY WASN'T ALL THAT SURPRISED when McGonagall came to him in the common room that evening, saying that the headmaster wished to speak with him. He simply nodded in resignation and made his way directly to the office hidden behind the great phoenix statue, sparing no thought for how unusual it ought to be for a student to be so familiar with the venerable old wizard that he knew the password to the headmaster's private office.

Dumbledore was in the observatory when Harry arrived, examining the stars curiously through his ornate gold telescope. He startled when he realized that Harry was in the room. "Ah, my boy, I apologize for bringing you up like this. You were probably expecting to meet with Professor Snape this evening?"

Honestly, Harry hadn't even thought about his nightly lessons once that day. But it made sense that he might meet with Snape, since Pomfrey had taken Snape's place the night before while the Potions Master had been absent. It sounded as if Snape might be back—which brought a new possibility that hadn't occurred to Harry before that moment. Snape had been gone from Hogwarts the day before, the same day that Voldemort had attacked that primary school.

Harry swallowed around a painful lump in his throat and asked the headmaster, "Did Snape—" He broke off as Dumbledore's bright blue eyes bored into him, floundering for a moment. "Was he... Did he know about the attack?"

Dumbledore turned away, but his tone was most emphatic when he replied, "Nothing of the sort, Harry. I'm afraid that Severus's position among the Death Eaters is presently rather...precarious. Voldemort didn't trust him enough to give him knowledge of the attack beforehand, nor did he allow him the _privilege_ ," Dumbledore's lip curled in disgust, "of aiding in the violence. I'm afraid that Professor Snape is in the Hospital Wing now, because Voldemort decided to test his loyalty in a more unpleasant manner."

Harry didn't know what to say in response to the implication that his least-favorite teacher had been tortured to the point of serious injury. Before he could figure out exactly how he felt about it, Dumbledore continued, "No, my boy, it's due to a different matter, though one not completely unrelated, that I called you here tonight.

"You may recall my mentioning in passing the enclaves that the Order of the Pheonix is helping to create?" Harry nodded uncertainly. He didn't know any details but the project had been mentioned to him. "Let me refresh your memory and perhaps provide you with some new particulars. The idea of these enclaves is not a new one. It originally came about during Voldemort's first reign of terror, though it luckily never had to be put into practice then. Since the end of your fourth year, Harry, we have been discussing the idea again. It wasn't taken all that seriously until the last few months, when Voldemort's attacks began increasing in both ferocity and frequency. But we now have several sites ready for settlement. These sites have all been made Unplottable, just like Hogwarts is, and a Secret Keeper protects each, as well.

"There will be no risk regarding these Secret Keepers," Dumbledore quickly assured the boy, knowing Harry's aversion towards that particular form of protection. "Each Secret Keeper is trusted implicitly and will be safe from Dark influences, as each resides in an enclave that is protected by another Secret Keeper. They will create an unbreakable web to protect one another, and not a one of them can be found as long as the web is intact.

"Those wizards, witches, and families who wish to take refuge in the enclaves must go through a number of tests, including interrogation under Veritaserum. This, in fact, is why Snape has entrusted his sixth and seventh year N.E.W.T. classes with brewing a potion so powerful. Normally, school-age children would not be allowed to make Veritaserum, but we will need large reserves for these interviews and the great many more that will be sprung randomly upon the inhabitants to ensure their continued virtue."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "And why are you telling me all this, sir?"

"I'd like your help, Harry." The headmaster looked over his spectacles at the boy, as he laced his fingers together and laid them on the desk. "Specifically, I'd like the help of your defense club. You have a very bright and dedicated group there, and it's a resource that our side cannot afford to ignore."

 _So that's why he allowed us to continue to meet_ , Harry thought to himself. _We really have become his little Junior Order of the Phoenix_. Harry felt that a familiar trickle of annoyance growing as Dumbledore described how he wanted the D.A. to help them find and research possible locations for new enclaves.

He assured Harry benevolently that once the Order of the Phoenix saw how proficient and trustworthy the D.A. was, they might even get more 'assignments', and when the time came, they might even be able to help the casters of the defense spells by volunteering their own magical power as well. Harry didn't particularly like the idea of using his friends like disposable batteries, though he knew that in the past he probably would have been hugely flattered and pleased with such an offer. That was then, and this was now—and now he felt as if the old man was manipulating them all to his own use. Harry grew more and more upset as Dumbledore went on about his plans, and by the time he excused himself from the office to head down to the dungeons, he was silently fuming to himself once again.

Though he'd forgotten about Snape, he hadn't forgotten the promise he'd made the previous Sunday to meet Malfoy that night. He stopped in front of a dust-coated tapestry hanging in the deserted stretch of dungeons he'd discovered some weeks before. After he'd wandered in by accident, he'd eventually got around to checking the area out on the Marauder's Map, and it seemed that his father's group of troublemakers hadn't strayed too far this way. The map didn't detail the tunnels at all and were wildly inaccurate about how far they extended. As far as Harry could tell, they seemed to reach all the way under the Dark Forest, and maybe they'd fallen into disuse simply because they were so far from the rest of the school.

Closing his eyes to the surely antique tapestry, which depicted the Hogwarts Founders in a rare scene of congeniality, Harry took a deep breath. He was still trying to shove his anger down where it wouldn't show when a thin hand darted out from under the hanging and yanked him forward into the room hidden behind it.

Malfoy was smirking at him and slammed shut the door that was normally concealed behind the hanging, drawling, "You know, Potter, I wouldn't think you'd forget the entrance to your own secret room. Though I've got to hand it to you—this place was quite the surprise. Rather clever for a Gryffindork."

He gestured blithely towards the wall that Harry had just been on the other side of. From the hall, it appeared to be as solid stone as any other part of the castle, but from inside the room, the wall was like a huge window. Draco had been able to see straight through it as if it were glass, watching Harry dither about until he'd decided to lend a helping hand. The abutting wall to his right also had windows that appeared to look out over the castle grounds, even though they were most definitely deep underground.

Harry tore himself free from Malfoy's grasp and—remembering that this was _Malfoy_ and not one of his friends who he should shield from his anger—he snarled, "Hands off, Malfoy. I didn't tell you about this room to impress you. I just didn't want to be seen with _you_ anywhere in the main castle."

Draco didn't lose his smirk. It simply turned into something brittle, his eyes glittering more with malice than amusement now. "Who went and spat in you pumpkin juice, Potter? And if you want to keep this room as secure and secret as you think it is, you might want to at least ward the door with a password."

Pushed too far by Malfoy's mocking attitude and Dumbledore's manipulations and the last week and the last year and perhaps his entire life, Harry whipped out his wand. For a second he thought he might have seen apprehension widening those cool grey eyes, but it was probably just wishful thinking. Tracing a complicated rune in the air with his wand, he spoke harshly one of the spells he'd found in his private studies, " _Gwedh ster gwhen, epi al-nem!_ "

There was a huge soundless explosion of light that rocked both Harry and Malfoy on their feet and left each with a peculiar feeling of pins dancing over his skin, almost like the feeling when your foot falls asleep but everywhere at once and not truly like that feeling at all. Malfoy sucked in a shocked breath and was left with the metallic aftertaste that only strong magic left behind. He was still blinking away the spots in his vision as he surged forward, grabbing the Gryffindor by the robes and shoving him against the wall of windows. "What the bloody _fuck_ was that, Potter?!"

Some of the tension had left Harry with the release of so much energy, and his own skin was still tingling. He hadn't even known if the spell would work or if he'd been pronouncing it correctly, having only read it in a book, but at least he'd managed to ruffle Malfoy out of his self-controlled act. He shrugged in a way that he was sure would infuriate the Slytherin, only explaining enough to say, "Well, now no one but the two of us can enter this room. Is that secure enough for you?"

Malfoy did _not_ like having having strange magic performed on himself without his permission (and if he were being honest with himself, which he generally tried not to be, he was a bit shocked by the power of Harry's spell), and so he said icily, "I don't know what your problem is, Potter, and I don't give a damn either. But you will not perform spells on me without my permission or this deal is off." All traces of amusement were completely gone from each boy's expression as they faced off.

"You don't give a damn what my problem is? Well, why does that not surprise me? You don't give a damn about anything other than yourself. Not even the hundreds of people who died this week would be worth your notice, nor would the fact that a third of our school is leaving this weekend occupy a moment of your valuable time, eh, Malfoy?"

The blond's expression couldn't grow any colder, so instead it became more remote. He asked flatly, "Why should I give a damn about a bunch of Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers?" Seeing Harry's shock at his coarseness, Malfoy's face became as blank as it was whenever Snape turned on him. "I hope you didn't misunderstand the situation, Potter. I am _not_ on your 'side.' I do not think like you do. I do not _care_ about the things you care about. I am only here because you know things that I want to know, and I know things that you want to know. I don't give a damn what happens to the Muggles and those foolish enough to associate with them."

Harry was furious that he could have ever believed in any subconscious part of his mind that Draco Malfoy could actually become a semi-decent person. He must have thought so, somehow, or this wouldn't have come as any shock. And yet, somehow, even after five and half years, it seemed he'd thought Malfoy could be reasoned with. He'd thought wrong.

"Why don't you sign up for the Junior Death Eaters, then, Malfoy—if you feel like that?" he spat bitterly. "Clearly that's more your style, so I don't know what you're doing here."

Malfoy's face was still as blank as a clean slate as he let go of Harry's robes and stepped back. He went to the door and threw over his shoulder, "I told you I don't give a damn about the Muggles and whether they live or die. I certainly don't care enough to go out killing them myself." Leaving those last words to muddle Harry's wits even further, Malfoy slammed out of the room.

* * *

HARRY SAT ALONE IN THE dungeon room for nearly three quarters of an hour. As his anger slowly faded, he was shocked to realize that his whole outburst with Malfoy hadn't even taken five minutes. Prior to this, it had seemed that he might be able to spend time with Malfoy without killing the blond (who was, Harry had noticed as they faced off, just slightly taller than Harry—just enough to be able to look down maddeningly at him when they were standing close). But maybe there simply was no hope for a Gryffindor and a Slytherin. At least, not when the Gryffindor was The Boy Who Lived and the Slytherin was Malfoy.

Though Malfoy hadn't been as virulent as he could have been. In fact, he'd gone so far as to admit that he didn't actually want to kill Muggles himself. He didn't object to their being killed, which was almost as bad, but apparently he didn't necessarily object to them continuing to exist either. So maybe he wasn't a miniature Lucius Malfoy clone, as Harry and the rest of the Gryffindors had always imagined. And maybe—just maybe—Harry would be wrong to assume that he was.

* * *

IT WAS DUE TO AN almost guilty feeling that Harry sent an anonymous message to Malfoy the next morning, with one of the school owls. He told himself that if he had anything to feel guilty about, it was only the failure to use every possible resource he had to learn wandless magic, because he surely couldn't be feeling guilty about judging and lashing out at the other boy. If anyone deserved a good judging and lashing, it was Malfoy. And if the Slytherin was at all surprised to get a letter from an anonymous barn owl, written in a familiar angular scrawl, he didn't show it. He read the short missive without his expression changing, then set it aflame on his breakfast plate, watching it burn away to ashes.

Harry swallowed hard, not sure if this was a sign that Malfoy had rebuffed his definitely-not-an-apology or if it was just a sign of Slytherin paranoia. Then Hermione asked him why he was staring at the Slytherins so intently, and he guiltily turned back to his own table, where everyone was trying once again to act normal. The result was a jarring sort of forced cheer that was grating on Harry worse than plain old gloom would have. It was a relief when the Gryffindors finally broke up to go to morning classes.

Harry arrived at N.E.W.T. potions with the rest of the trio and reluctantly peeled away from the other two so he could head over to Malfoy's table. At least there was only one more week until they would unveil their potions, once the moon was full again, and then the paired work would be over for a time.

As he dropped his bag onto the ground next to their desk, Harry snuck a glance at Malfoy from the corner of his eye. Although it was outside the peripherary of his glasses, from what he could make out of the slightly blurry Slytherin, Malfoy didn't seem to be giving any sign of either continued anger or acknowledgement of Harry's brief note that morning. Of course, the note hadn't given the Slytherin much to work with. After agonizing over the words for much longer than he'd care to admit, Harry had simply written: "Malfoy—same time, same place? Tonight?" And Malfoy usually never dropped his blank mask in Snape's N.E.W.T. class. There was no real reason for today to be any different.

They worked in almost complete silence for the entire class period. Finally, when everyone was packing up and cleaning their equipment, Harry asked in what he hoped was a casual voice, "Got a bit of mail this morning, Malfoy? What, did you finally get into the Git Hall of Fame?" Even for him, it was a poor attempt at wit, but he desperately needed some way to bring up the letter. Not knowing how Malfoy meant to respond to it was driving him to distraction.

Malfoy looked over at him through those flat eyes, his expression bland as he drawled, "Hardly, Scarhead. Just another declaration of undying love from one of my many admirers." Harry felt a chilling stab of alarm. Had his letter not been delivered to the evil blond? Had it gone to someone else, and would they recognize his writing? Seeing Harry's face, Draco's mouth started to quirk up on the sides, but he licked his lips and any sign of emotion was immediately wiped clean from his face.

Harry watched this action in some fascination, but then Draco lifted his bag as everyone started to inch toward the door, saying easily, "The fool girl lost her chance last night, and now she wants to beg my forgiveness for acting like a complete ass. Suppose I ought to give her another shot. The poor thing seems desperate to get her hands on me."

Harry caught the glint in Malfoy's silvery eyes and at last understood what the Slytherin was saying. His own lips began to curl in response to the goading smirk that he knew Malfoy was fighting to keep hidden. "Begging your forgiveness? Really? Well, you wouldn't want to miss that. You ought to meet with the misguided fool, Malfoy."

No one seemed to notice the odd conversation between the two rivals, since the rest of the class was caught up in the fervor of being free from Snape for the next five whole days. Except for Harry, of course, who would have to meet with the Potions Master again that night.

* * *

THE HOGWART'S POTIONS MASTER (WHO was also Albus Dumbledore's most valued spy, but not many knew about that) looked rather stiff and pained when Harry met with him Wednesday evening. He had put up a good front in class, but apparently he didn't see Harry as worth the effort. He remained seated in his chair and gestured at the Gryffindor with a sheaf of parchment. "Here are the ingredients and instructions for tonight's brew: a flesh-eating potion that can be used to great affect when it is aerosolized." That seemed to be the extent of his lecturing for the night, and he fell back into silence as he watched Harry gather ingredients.

Once the Gryffindor was set to work and busily dicing up acidic bubotubers, Snape asked all of a sudden, "What's going on between you and Malfoy?"

Harry nearly sliced off his thumb.

He lifted his eyes to dart a glance at the professor, then returned them to the cutting board before him. His voice seemed unnaturally high even to his own hearing as he said, "Going on, sir? There's nothing going on. Just as bitter enemies as ever. No one hates each other as much as we do." But thinking about Malfoy only reminded him of the Slytherin's confusing comments the night before, and Harry bent further over the desk, happily letting his hair cover his eyes as he pretended to be rereading the instructions, and asked, "Why the interest, professor? It seemed to me that you've been quite unconcerned about Malfoy this year." It was the most underhanded way Harry could think of to ask just why the head of Slytherin house was acting so cold to his former star pupil.

Snape's gaze was calculating as he leaned back in his chair. He snorted. "A fair stab at cunning, Potter, but you've got a long way to go yet. So, you want to know why I behave the way I do towards Draco? You don't think it's simply because the boy is insufferable?"

Harry didn't say anything, as there was nothing he could or would do to deny Malfoy's unique personality—unique like a particularly damaging acid.

"Plain and simple dislike is certainly a part of it. I no longer need fear Lucius Malfoy's wrath should I treat Draco as less than a pampered prince. But it is more to keep up appearances." Harry blinked, flicking his eyes up once to look at Snape. The professor was staring back at him down his long nose, and Harry quickly turned his attention back to his potion. But he was even more shocked when Snape went on to say, "There's no gain to be had from showing kindness to the Malfoy boy, as long as the Dark Lord doesn't want him."

Jerking his head up to stare into the professor's cold black eyes, Harry demanded, "What do you mean, Voldemort doesn't want Malfoy?"

Draco had always seemed the perfect Death-Eater-in-training to Harry in the past. Of course, now it was different, even if Harry couldn't explain just how it was different. But Snape merely shook his head, either not knowing or not willing to share why how the pureblooded Malfoy heir could have ever fallen out of favor with _Voldemort_ of all people. Harry bit his lip. He wanted desperately to ask more, and to ask about the attack of two days ago, but Harry had plenty of experience with Snape's wrath when pushed too far.

Dumbledore had said that Snape hadn't known about the plans for the school, but what if he had? Would he have stopped this massacre and revealed himself prematurely? Or would he have let Voldemort's forces go unchecked instead of risking being unmasked and ruining any chance for Dumbledore to find out the Dark Lord's long-term plans? Were three hundred lives worth those of all the free Wizarding world? And more to the point, did they have the right to choose, simply because they were on the side of 'good'? Harry wondered about the questions as he glowered at his potion, and he realized, _I just don't know_.

* * *

THIS TIME IT WAS HARRY who watched through the enchanted wall as Malfoy approached their meeting room. The Slytherin's expression changed into a slight smirk, and he exaggerated his swagger as he neared the tapestry. He made a rude gesture toward the wall that he knew the Gryffindor could be watching through, and Harry was still trying to suppress his laughter at the Slytherin's nerve when that blond head edged through the door.

Draco smirked at the other boy, reaching out to push him roughly on the side of his head—further rucking up that notoriously tousled black mop. "Ah, and here is my erstwhile lover, waiting to beg my forgiveness." Harry blinked in surprise, not at Malfoy's words but at his almost friendly gesture. The two boys hadn't touched in a non-violent way since they'd first shook hands in Madame Malkin's, all those years before.

Nonetheless, Harry scoffed at the blond as he would usually, saying, "You're going to be waiting a long time before you ever hear me beg, Malfoy."

Yet both seemed equally willing to ignore the heated words of the night before, and Malfoy didn't demand any apologies or explanation. Maybe Slytherins simply never apologized for anything.

"So you want to learn wandless magic then?" Malfoy asked, looking Harry up and down critically as if he doubted the other boy would be capable. Harry's mouth tightened but he only nodded. Malfoy gave a sharp nod back and said, "Fine. I won't ask why and you won't ask how I know it, clear?"

"Crystal."

Since Harry didn't argue with the terms, Malfoy started off by showing him his personal trick to getting started with wandless magic, which was to use simple gestures as an aid to get the power flowing. "My specialty, if you'd like," the Slytherin smirked, "is to move things. Shove 'em, nudge 'em, make 'em levitate. It's simple to imagine that an easy flick of the wrist," he demonstrated, and a small desk covered in dust was sent careening across the room, "just throws off all that excess power, like slinging water off your skin."

Seeing Harry preparing to fling his arm in much the same manner, Draco grabbed the offending appendage and ground out in his most patient voice, which wasn't really all that patient, "Now, you're trying to work with fire, right? So, unless you're trying to start a fire with the force of one of those Muggle bombs, flinging about huge swathes of power might just be overkill."

The blond used his free hand to wave to the side, and the same table as before slide a few feet to the side, screeching along the stone floor. "Motion is simply about applying force. But fire...is more of a reaction." Harry could feel Malfoy's long, tapered fingers grasping tightly onto his forearm through his shirt as the blond asked, "Wouldn't you agree?"

He nodded belatedly in response to what the other boy was saying, and Malfoy continued. "Reaction. So what you need in this case is to create friction." As he said this, Malfoy finally released his grip on Harry's arm and allowed it to drop back to his side. "Friction creates heat," he said softly, as he brought up his left hand and pressed his thumb and middle finger together. He snapped, and instantly a small flame sprang to life, suspended in the air just above his jutting thumb.

Harry watched, fascinated, as Malfoy used his Wizarding equivalent of a lighter to set ablaze tapers set in sconces high on the walls. He smarted as he was reminded yet again of how Draco was taller than he was, though neither boy was going to win any awards for height. Harry was a mean five foot three, and Malfoy couldn't have been much more than three inches taller than that. Neither was ever going to hold a candle to Ron, who had just hit six feet.

They practiced for a good thirty minutes, and by then end of it, Harry was able to create his own trembling flame at the snap of his finger more often than not. Malfoy demonstrated how to focus so that he could even set objects at various distances aflame, though that was going to take even longer to get down. Still, Harry was so pleased that he had finally made any kind of progress at wandless magic that he offered to teach Malfoy how to summon a Patronus.

He remembered the Weasley twins telling him back in third year how Malfoy had also been quite affected by the Dementors on the school train. Being able to summon a Patronus should be just the thing to pay back whatever debt he now owed to the Slytherin. After teaching Malfoy the incantation, Harry tried to help the boy summon a Patronus even without a Dementor present, but they had no luck. They decided to meet the same time the next week to work on it some more before parting ways, each leaving the dungeons separately so that no one might see them together.

* * *

THREE DAYS LATER FOUND HARRY guiltily cleaning up after the party that had kept Gryffindor house up until the wee hours the night before. He was feeling guilty because he had completely forgotten to help plan for the surprise party, which had been set up to send the departing Gryffindors off in style. He'd been so busy with private lessons that it had slipped his mind entirely, and so now he was lobbing empty butterbeer bottles into a rubbish sack and scraping popper confetti out from under the sofa cushions to make up for it.

Ron came down at what was for him an early hour: before noon on a Saturday. The train to take the former students to King's Cross had left at eight that morning, though most the Gryffindors leaving the school had staggered on board in a daze, having not gone to bed until three or four themselves. Ron watched as Harry ducked under an armchair to pull out a bottle that had rolled beneath it. The redhead was looking unusually sober as he said, "That was some performance last night, Harry. You almost seemed present for a change."

Fighting down a sigh, Harry asked Ron what he meant, and his best friend told him, "You've been acting a bit odd the last few days. Distant, like you're not even here when you _are_ here with the rest of us. You know?"

Harry only muttered, "Everyone's been acting a bit odd since the last attack."

Ron grabbed the bag out of his friend's hand and spoke roughly, "Not like you, Harry. You've been off mucking about with Malfoy. Everyone else has been sticking together as Gryffindors, and you've been slumming it with a Slytherin!" Harry glared balefully at his rubbish sack, now in Ron's white-knuckled grip.

"One night," he shot back. "I met Malfoy for _one_ night—so that I could learn the things that _Dumbledore_ wants me to learn, by the way." He didn't know why he was even defending it or why he should have to. "The reason I'm gone all the time, and distracted all the time, is because of these stupid extra lessons that Dumbledore has put me on. And besides—we're supposed to be sticking together as a school, not giving into all this house rivalry. 'We must unite inside her or we'll crumble from within,' remember?" As he quoted from the Sorting Hat's song from the year before, Harry was at least smart enough not to mention the line about 'Were there such friends anywhere as Slytherin and Gryffindor?'

Harry wasn't sure if even he believed what he was saying, but he felt that he had to have something to say to defend his willingness to meet with Malfoy. And most of what Ron was saying was rubbish anyway. Sure, Harry should have spent more time with Dean and the Creevey brothers and everyone else who'd left that morning, but one hour spent learning wandless magic from Malfoy wasn't the real issue here. "Everyone's miserable right now, Ron," he snapped, his temper fraying after the short night of sleep. "We hardly need to drive one another apart even further. And some of us have bigger problems to worry about than schoolboy grudges."

Whatever Ron would have said in response was lost forever, though. The moment he opened his mouth, the portrait hole banged open to admit a staggering seventh-year girl. The Gryffindor prefect looked more broken than Harry had ever seen her, and his stomach dropped to the floor, to be joined moments later by the sack that slipped from Ron's suddenly nerveless grip. There was a sharp tinkling as the butterbeer bottles shattered upon their unforgiving meeting with the hard stone.

* * *

UNBEKNOWNST TO HARRY, DRACO HAD taken an immediate liking to the dungeon room they used for their secret meetings. Ever since Harry had told him where to find it, he'd been using it whenever he wanted to get away from the other Slytherins or simply to work in peace somewhere. And once he'd stopped being furious about Harry using some strange spell on him without asking, he'd actually enjoyed knowing that no one but he and Saint Potter could get into the room, even if anyone else knew about the old corridor and its hidden chambers.

He was perched on the bench seat built into one of the windows that were charmed to let the sunlight pour into the room, though he knew logically that he was deep underground. Some flicker in the corner of his eye made him look up from his book, and he saw through the enchanted wall that Harry was stomping down the hall towards the room. Draco froze, then pressed himself even more tightly into the window frame, until he was almost hidden by the bright light of the afternoon sun.

Harry snatched aside the tapestry and pushed blindly through the door before falling heavily back against it. He dragged in a slow and shaking breath, then turned and swiftly landed a hard punch on the wood. Blood was already starting to well up through the scratches on his knuckles when he moved to strike the door again—and an unexpected voice drawled, "If you want to hit something, Potter, you could at least have the decency to hit something that has a chance at fighting back."

Harry's whole body jerked as his eyes darted about the room. There was an extra glint in the windows that showed out to the sky, and he realized that Malfoy was sitting insouciantly in that bath of light, and the glint had been caused by the bright sun streaming in and turning his hair into a shining white halo.

Draco noticed that Harry's eyes seemed rather red and glazed. He asked again, "You looking a fight, Potter?"

Harry nodded shortly and spoke in a hoarse voice. "Yes. Let's fight, Malfoy."

Draco was slightly taken aback when the dark-haired boy then lunged at him, dragging Draco up by his robes before landing a glancing blow to his jaw. After that abrupt and rather unfair start, Draco fought back with just as much savagery.

They kicked, elbowed, and punched each other, brutally attacking any vulnerable area they could each find on the other's body. Draco was quick and good at dodging blows, but there wasn't much he could do to get away from Harry's determined grappling. The boy fought like something wild, and Draco soon found himself flat on his back, with Harry straddling his narrow hips and trying quite convincingly to choke the life out of him.

Staring up at the crazed Gryffindor as he scrabbled at the hands on his throat, Draco couldn't tell if the droplets of moisture sliding down Harry's face were tears or just sweat. Deciding now wasn't a good time to worry about such things, he boxed Harry in the ear and then scrambled out from under the dazed boy, planting a sharp kick in the Gryffindor's ribs as he did. Harry grabbed his foot as he tried to retreat and yanked Draco back to the ground, sending his head crashing into the stone floor with a sharp crack. They both lay there for a moment, too exhausted and pained to push themselves up and continue.

Draco was even more uncomfortable than his physical injuries warranted when he realized that Harry actually _was_ crying—and in great heaving sobs that were painful even to hear. Not knowing anything diplomatic or comforting to say, he wheedled, "Now, Potter, I know it's tough to admit to being beaten by me, but really... Crying over it just isn't the Gryffindor thing to do." This didn't sound quite as impressive when Draco was still gasping for breath, but he persisted. "What you ought to be doing is acting morally outraged and claiming that justice and good will prevail, et cetera. Or if you were a Slytherin, you could perhaps simply vow to poison me and murder me unawares."

At least Harry made a rough sound like a snort at Draco's twisted humor (or his telling of the truth, depending on your perspective). But it was almost swallowed by the shuddering breath he sucked in afterward. Staring up at the ceiling, he told Draco, "Dean Thomas is dead."

Draco certainly hadn't been expecting that. Maybe that Boy Wonder had failed to save an endangered puppy or that his fools of best friends had ditched him to elope or some such nonsense, but not something like this. Not something real. "What do you mean, Thomas is dead?" he demanded, his words coming out colder than even he intended.

Harry turned his head to look blearily at the blond sprawled next to him, whose hair was creating a silvery white nimbus around his head. He gave an owlish blink, tears still streaming from his eyes and making them look an even brighter green than usual. His glasses had been ripped from him at some point during their fight. When he spoke, it was if he hadn't even heard Draco.

"And the Creeveys. And Alicia Spinnet. Justin Fitch-Finchly. Terry Boot. The prefects are telling all of the houses. Everyone who left on the Hogwarts Express this morning is dead. Death Eaters hijacked the train, and when it pulled into King's Cross, every car was marked with a large Dark Mark. After a couple minutes passed and no one got off the train, some brave, foolish parents finally went in and found..."

Draco didn't need the black-haired boy to continue in order to imagine the scene: the parents would have made their way hesitantly into the cars, only to find their shoes squelching in the blood-soaked carpet and discover the unmoving bodies of the innocent students, their children. He swallowed hard. Although no one close to him had fled the school, they'd still been people he'd known: classmates who he'd teased and tortured for years. And now they were dead.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, his faces still wet from tears, and asked miserably, "Why? Why would Voldemort even do it? They were leaving our world—isn't that what he wants?"

Out of fear he might actually feel something for the Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers, Draco retreated back into his shell and told Harry plainly, "Yes, he does want them to leave. But even more than that, he wants them dead, Potter." He watched in a strange fascination as The Boy Who Lived was literally going to pieces in front of him. While he'd teased Potter to the point of angry tears and blind fury before, he'd never managed to reduce him to this sort of weakness. It was sickening to see. Or maybe it was only that punch he'd taken to the gut.

Harry knew he should be embarrassed to be crying in front of _Malfoy_ of all people. He'd come here to get away from any prying eyes, since even Ron and Hermione didn't know about this room. He hadn't expected the room to be occupied by the single other person who could enter it. But he couldn't make himself care about how _embarrassing_ it might be. Dean was dead, and it was at least in part because of Harry. Because Harry had let Voldemort come back, and he still didn't know how he could kill him for good.

"Why is he attacking like this?" Harry mumbled, not really expecting any answers but needing something to explain away the horror. "I thought the war was going to be about battlefields and armies, tangible forces to fight. How can we defend against this? How am I supposed to stop this?"

Malfoy's expression was blank but his mind was whirring. He'd always mocked Harry Potter for his role as the people's savior, thinking that it was something that Potter actually chose and reveled in. But it was possible that Potter was just as lost as anyone else—except how much worse would it be to feel that way when everyone else seemed to think that you could save them?

He covered his own eyes with a hand to avoid seeing the boy sniveling beside him and said, "This is the way you win a war, Potter. You break your enemy's spirits and making them think there's nothing they can do to stop you. It's more mental than anything else. It's all about symbolism—you should know about that. You're a bloody symbol yourself."

Harry didn't say anything, as if he were waiting for Malfoy to continue, which the blond did reluctantly. "Look, why would the Dark Lord go head-to-head with Dumbledore's forces? They're closely enough matched that both sides could suffer huge losses. People would still be affected, but not nearly so much as they have been by these attacks. With just a few strikes in which he's lost none of his own people, he has shown that interacting with Muggles is not acceptable, nor are mixed-bloods and Mudbloods, and that he will not let offenders escape into the Muggle world unscathed.

"His attacks have thrown the Wizarding world into chaos. The Ministry has lost nearly a third its workers, either to death or resignation, and many of those remaining are afraid to do their jobs. The people are afraid to leave their houses. They're afraid to go to the shops. Now even Hogwarts has been struck by fear, as it seems no one will be able to come here or leave, not even a supposedly secret train taking students away. Do you really think the Dark Lord will call a ceasefire and just let everyone go home for the Christmas hols? I hardly think so."

Malfoy lifted his hand from where it was shielding his eyes and looked at his bruised knuckles, feeling the pulsing pain in his head from where it had struck the hard stone floor. His eyes slid over to meet those sparkling green irises. "The Wizarding world is weak and vulnerable now, Potter. There's nothing you can do to stop it. And you're the biggest symbol of them all, so if you go down, the whole world might just give up." The boys fell into silence as they lay there in the afternoon sun, which was already taking on a golden hue as it slid lower in the sky.

Draco didn't look to see if Potter was still crying, and he was quite lost in his own thoughts until he heard the other boy drag himself up into a sitting position. Harry appeared in his line of sight as the Gryffindor leaned over him to ask, "Do you want me to get rid of your bruises and such?" Draco was a bit unsure about letting Harry cast more spells on him, but his paranoia pained him less than the splitting headache he was suffering. He gave a jerky nod before he could reconsider it. Harry waved his wand with a few short incantations, and to Draco's surprise, he was pleased to feel his aching bruises and scratches alleviated. He sat up and rubbed the back of his no longer throbbing head.

Harry looked up from healing his own bruises and smirked a bit at Malfoy, whose fine hair was uncharacteristically mussed. He shoved the blond's hair even more into his eyes just to mess with him. "Your hair is ridiculous, you know. Makes you look like some deranged angel." Malfoy was feeling generous in the temporary cloud of euphoria caused by the healing spells, so he let Harry's comment slide, even though it was patently ridiculous for _Potter_ of all people to comment on the state of anyone else's hair.

Both boys clambered to their feet, straightening their clothes and preparing to leave as if by some unspoken agreement. Draco turned back to Harry and said, "Maybe we should do this again some time."

Harry startled, and he asked in a doubtful tone, "What, the talking part?"

Malfoy snorted and shoved him toward the door, saying caustically, "Hell no, Potter. The fighting part." He smoothed his pale hair back with a lofty look. "You need a lot of practice if you expect to go around saving the world, Wonder Boy."

Harry still felt hollow and sick and angry, and he was sure he would feel that way for a long while to come. But seeing Malfoy's sharp smile again—that biting strength which allowed him to ignore Snape's mistreatment and the insults from other Slytherins and the loss of his father—the Gryffindor felt a little more ready to face his friends once again. He'd fallen to pieces and licked his wounds, and now he could try again to be strong for them in the grief that threatened to drown them all. The Boy Who Lived walked out of the room with his re-formed armor in place, ready to face to whatever might come next.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 04**

HARRY WAS RUNNING AWAY.

HE ran as if his life depended on it. He could hear the manticores gaining on him, close enough now that he could distinguish the different beasts' panting breaths. He shot a Reductor curse wildly behind him, and there was a strangled whimper as at least one of his pursuers went down. It all brought back horrible memories of his dash from the cemetery full of Death Eaters back when he was fourteen, only this time there was no portkey waiting to deliver him to safety if he could only reach it, and suddenly Harry had to fight off a panic attack while also trying to ignore the cramping in his side and how out of breath he felt.

As he scrambled through the Dark Forest, Lupin's spell prevented him from remembering that this entire exercise was a test and the manticores weren't even real. The rest of the class watched the projection that Lupin was using for grading from where they were arrayed by Hagrid's cabin. Half were grimacing in commiseration, remembering their own fearful runs, and the other half were petrified by an ever increasing dread as they looked forward to their own turns. Professor Lupin watched the illusion closely, not only to judge Harry's performance but also so that he could pull the boy out of danger if the need arose. So far only one student had needed such assistance, so he was feeling quite pleased with the sixth-year students' progress.

Classes had had to go on, despite the tragedies that had befallen the students and the rest of the world. The point of keeping Hogwarts open hadn't merely been to serve as a refuge but so life could continue on as normally as possible. One of the few changes, though, had been the students' timetables. Most classes had been combined, since the students' numbers no longer justified so many sections. The first and second years had been so devastated—both by the lowered enrollment that year and the large number that had tried to escape on the Hogwarts Express—that all four houses were now being taught in combined classes. Harry's Care of Magical Creatures class had been all houses since the beginning of the year, but now N.E.W.T. Charms and N.E.W.T. Potions were as well—which both had only been combined with a single other house until this week. N.E.W.T. Defense against the Dark Arts was one of the few classes with a high enough enrolment to still warrant multiple classes, though even they had been combined, so that now the Gryffindors shared their class with the Hufflepuffs.

With the increased free hours that this recombination afforded to the professors, they had more time to work on Hogwarts' defenses and assist the Order of the Phoenix, though Harry had only learned of this fact from Professor Lupin. There was also debate going on between the teachers about whether they should try to provide safe transportation for the students to go home for the winter holidays in December or whether it should be made mandatory to stay at Hogwarts this year. Perhaps it could be arranged for the parents to come to Hogsmeade and to enter Hogwarts' wards on foot, some had suggested. But what about those parents who were known or suspected Death Eaters? They couldn't very well refuse them entry without any sort of proof.

Harry enjoyed the talks he had with Lupin, after their weapons training and sparring practices. They often sat over a cup of hot chocolate, waiting for the last of their sweat to dry if it had been a particularly active session, and discussing what was going on. It made Harry feel better that Lupin seemed to see him as grown enough to talk about such things, even if it might only be because Lupin still saw his father, James, in him. Sirius had certainly tended to do just that. But Harry didn't think that was the real reason that Lupin kept him up to date. Lupin had never seemed to coddle him or treat him like a child—or a tool.

While Lupin still had the final say in their lessons, they were finding a new way around one another that was more like the respect between equals than a teacher lecturing a child. It might not have hurt that Harry was able to beat Lupin in their magical duels just as often as he was being beaten himself. Though only in the magical duels. It was still rare for him to get one up on the Defense professor when they did any physical sparring, since Harry had never been the type to get in scraps. He'd mostly run from Dudley all his life, and even though he'd got in plenty of fights with Malfoy and his thugs, they'd usually been the magical variety. So Lupin trounced him again and again—and even after the older wizard taught him a charm that would temporarily improve his eyesight, so he wouldn't be at a disadvantage as soon as he lost his glasses in a scuffle. The charm only lasted an hour anyway, if you didn't recast the spell, but Lupin hadn't been willing to teach him anything more permanent. Human transfiguration was McGonagall's area, as Lupin had pointed out, and if Harry wanted to risk doing himself permanent damage, he could do it on her watch.

Deciding to take cues from both Lupin and McGonagall—and because he had a vague recollection from his reading that manticores were quite resistant to magic and spells—Harry snatched up a handful of twigs from the forest floor as he ran. It was hard to work transfiguration while in motion, but Harry was getting used to working in stressful conditions. He transfigured the twigs into sharp bolts one by one, stuffing each into his back pocket as he went. He knew that a knife would be easier to transfigure, but he didn't really fancy going hand-to-hand with the slavering beasts chasing after him. And if he tried throwing a knife, his chances of actually bringing one of them down would be about as likely as Hagrid teaching puffskeins for their next lesson. Not impossible, but not something you wanted to bet your life on.

Harry stole another quick look over his shoulder. The manticores were still twenty feet behind him. He scoured the forest floor as he kept moving, until he spotted a promising branch that he made a detour toward, scooping the dead wood up from the ground without slowing. He paused just long enough to perform a complex bit of transfiguration, then it was with a shiny new (and hopefully fully functional) crossbow in hand that he took off even faster than before, trying to pull farther ahead.

When he'd put about ten yards between himself and the manticores, he spun about, pulling one of the bolts from his back pocket as he did. He fitted the bolt into the crossbow he'd transfigured, lifted it to eye level to take aim, and then let the bolt fly. It embedded itself into the skull of the foremost creature, even if it was a hand's width away from the point he'd been aiming at, and the manticore fell, tripping up an additional two of the four predators behind it. Harry continued to quickly load bolts into his crossbow and empty them into the beasts until he ran out of ammunition. As soon as he did, he threw the crossbow to the side so he could whip out his wand once more, casting Stunning spell after Stunning spell at the fallen creatures to try to ensure that they would stay down.

A pregnant silence fell. Harry remained nervously alert to any of the many other dangers the Dark Forest could hold and was still eyeing the downed manticores when his memory came rushing back to him, the knowledge striking him with the force of a physical blow. Finally he could remember that this whole setup had been an exercise for class, and even as he readjusted to the idea, the inert manticores in front of him melted away into nothing. His transfigured bolts fell to the ground, and he released the spell from both them and the crossbow, leaving only a pile of normal twigs behind as he fumbled in his front left pocket for the portkey he now recalled was there.

Harry still hated this particular form of travel, but he didn't really feel like traipsing around the forest to try and find his way back out, which would more than likely result in him running into some Dark creature that was _not_ one of Lupin's illusions. He let the simple portkey drag him back to the field where the rest of Lupin's Gryffindor/Hufflepuff D.A.D.A. class was waiting. There he was greeted by dumbfounded silence for a moment—then in a rush he was surrounded, getting slapped on the back and jostled teasingly as his year mates wanted to know how he'd learned to do that transfiguration or to shoot like that. Even the Gryffindors who'd had class with Harry before hadn't seem him do anything quite like this before.

He looked sheepishly at Professor Lupin and tried to beg off on his explanations, saying, "The transfiguration was just like the one we did in class. Remember, when we had to make a mousetrap from a piece of old cheese?" That was how McGonagall had explained it to him when she'd taught him to transfigure basic firearms. "I just tweaked it a bit, that's all. And hell if I know how to shoot anything. You just aim the pointy end away from you and pull the trigger, right?"

There was a bit more to it than that, of course, but it was true that learning to fire projectiles had an easier learning curve than getting truly skilled with a sword or other close-range weapons. That was why Lupin had been having him practice with both the crossbow and with an actual Muggle handgun, which could both be used at a distance, where he wouldn't be in as much trouble if he were fighting someone with much better hand-to-hand combat abilities than he might have. None of the other students at the school knew, of course, that Dumbledore thought firearms should be a part of Harry's world-savior curriculum, and Harry had fully intended to keep it that way. If he'd been able to remember that anyone was watching, he wouldn't have shown off any of the new skills he'd been picking up the past month. But Lupin's spell had kept him from remembering that he had an audience, and so he'd used every trick he knew to stay alive. After everything else he'd been through, you couldn't deny that Harry Potter had developed rather keen survival instincts.

The class was luckily distracted as Neville started his run, and both Ron and Hermione took the opportunity to sidle up to Harry. He stiffened slightly as Ron slapped a hand on his shoulder and Hermione slid her hand into the crook of his arm, squeezing it as though afraid he'd bolt if they didn't trammel him in. Her voice was soft and careful, as if she might break something if she spoke too loud. It had been like that since Saturday. "Well done, Harry," she told him, giving his arm a little shake. "I know you've got your lessons in the evening, but have you given any more thought to joining us tonight? Remember, all of us are going to get together to share photos and memories about...those we lost." He felt the hand she had on him tighten. "It would mean a lot to everyone, especially the younger years, if you could make it. I'm sure the headmaster would understand..."

A flash of silver across the way caught Harry's attention and made him turn from Hermione. Malfoy was striding across the deserted grounds, his pale hair appearing brilliant white in the early afternoon sun as he stormed away from the greenhouses on the other side of the field. It was still the middle of the hour, so Malfoy must be ditching his class, and Harry's eyes followed the other boy as he strode angrily toward the castle.

Harry was wondering to himself why Malfoy still even bothered taking Herbology as he replied in a distracted tone, "Sorry, Hermione. But you know that I'm no good at that sort of thing. Talking about...well, any of it really." Hermione had followed the path that Harry's eyes had taken, and as she listened to his words, her grip on him seemed to tighten even further.

She tugged on his arm to recapture Harry's attention, her dark eyes intent on his face. "And Malfoy?" she asked, her tone losing some of that softness. Ron hadn't said anything till this point, as if his only role were to keep Harry trapped as he towered of his shorter friend with one large hand clamped on his shoulder, but he pulled a familiar grimace when the Slytherin's name was mentioned.

"What about Malfoy?" Harry asked back, quicker than he meant to.

"You didn't answer anyone's questions about him at the D.A. last week," Hermione pointed out. "And you haven't told us anything either, though we know you've met with him at least once."

Harry let out a silent breath of relief. _That's all_. Not that there was that much more to it than Hermione knew, but Harry certainly hadn't told his friends about how he'd had a brawl with Malfoy and then somehow ended up discussing the war while maybe having a bit of a breakdown in front of the git. He'd also failed to mention how he and Malfoy didn't really seem to fight all that much when it was just the two of them, though that didn't stop them from insulting one another or otherwise being nasty to one another.

"There's nothing really to tell," Harry admitted, realizing he had to say something. "It's not even been two weeks," he reminded Hermione, though it was hard to believe. So much had happened since Malfoy had first walked into the D.A., with both the ever more horrific attacks on the Wizarding world and the bizarre rapport he seemed to be forming with Malfoy. "I still haven't got him to admit anything more about what he's really after, and until I can be sure of that, I won't let him come to any D.A. meetings."

"But _you're_ still meeting with him!" Hermione bit her lip. "It's not...right. You shouldn't be meeting with him on your own like that. You shouldn't have to. There's so much else you have to do already, and...and..."

She trailed off, and Harry shrugged uncomfortably. "It's not that bad. He's been able to show me some tricks for wandless magic, honestly. I'm trying to teach him the Patronus in return, but we've had no luck so far." Yet Draco was doing everything perfectly. His incantations and wand movements were without fault, and so Harry had begun getting the uncomfortable feeling that for all his mocking and sharp smiles, Malfoy might not have anything happy enough in him to summon a Patronus.

"But you hadn't even told us that, Harry! We could help you. We could do research into the Patronus, or just be there so that you aren't stuck alone with Malfoy," Hermione spoke, a guilty look in her dark eyes. "But you never tell us anything anymore! If you don't talk about things, you'll only make it worse for yourself. Bottling things up simply isn't healthy."

Harry pulled back and said without thinking, "It's fine. And we've already tried reading up on the Patronus."

"'We'?" she asked, voice faint.

"Malfoy and I, of course," Harry said, rolling his eyes a bit. "And just because I don't talk to you about things, it doesn't mean I never talk to anyone."

Hermione looked again over at Malfoy's distant figure, nearly at the castle doors now. She shook her head to herself, as if she were trying to deny something, while Ron looked ill that Harry could talk so casually about doing anything with Malfoy that didn't involve the blond getting his aristocratic nose shoved into the dirt.

Avoiding Harry's eyes, Hermione said in a strangled voice, "Right. I see. Of course you must be talking to the headmaster and Professor Lupin and the others as well. If you think it's better you meet with them than come tonight, I-I understand." Her hand fell from his arm as a trembling but triumphant Neville portkeyed back into the clearing to be congratulated for his success against the manticores, and Hermione turned away to join the others in clapping for him.

* * *

HARRY LET HIMSELF INTO THE dungeon room to the familiar sight of Malfoy perched on the window seat and reading some arcane tome or another. In the last two weeks, there had hardly been a time when Harry had found the room unoccupied when he visited it. Not that he was coming every day. But perhaps every few days, he would find himself needing to get away from his housemates or simply wanting to get some homework done without any interruptions. Oddly enough, it had turned out that he and Malfoy had no problem working quietly in the same room. Perhaps they both simply needed the break from their public personas.

Malfoy flick a few fingers up from the edge of his book in silent greeting without glancing at Harry or even looking up from the page, and Harry only grunted in response. He slung his bag to the ground and bent down to rummage through his things aimlessly for a few moments, before giving up even the pretense that he was interested in studying. He let the bag go and sat back on the cold floor with a thump.

Draco finished the paragraph that he was on, then slipped a sheet of notes in the book to mark his place before bothering to look up. He saw Harry's mullish expression and said blandly, "I hope you're not looking for another fight, because I've got to tell you: I've just had these robes pressed."

Harry shot him a baleful glare. "You're such a pouf, Malfoy. I can't believe you'd give up a perfectly good opportunity to thrash me—as you keep you claiming you can—just for your precious robes getting wrinkled."

Draco stared back at him inscrutably, then said, "Fine." In one smooth motion he stood and shrugged out of his robes to reveal a pair of well-fitted Muggle jeans and a plain but clearly very expensive black shirt. Harry stared at him, never having imagined Malfoy in normal Muggle clothes like this. It seemed too surreal: Draco Malfoy, heir to one of the oldest and most obnoxiously pureblood Wizarding families in existence, standing in front of a magically created window in a thousand-year-old castle and somehow looking like he could fit into a spread for some Muggle fashion magazine. 

Malfoy neatly folded his robes in a deft move that took Harry by surprise. Of course, everything about the boy was normally neat, but he wouldn't have expected Malfoy to be accustomed to folding his own things. He probably had house-elves and servants for all that, after all. The blond strode toward him, and Harry scrambled backwards to keep some distance between them. "Uh, no, I don't want to fight. I mean, if you don't feel like doing your reading, we could have a go at the Patronus again?"

He was holding up a hand as if to ward the Slytherin off, but Malfoy reached down and used the limb to pull Harry sharply to his feet. "All right, let's get to it then."

Malfoy walked back to the window, and for some reason Harry found himself disappointed to see the blond slip his robes back on. He'd seemed almost—almost like different person in regular Muggle clothing. Like someone other than the bully who had spent five years sneering at Harry and sabotaging him in classes. Harry shook his head and reminded himself that it was still the same Malfoy no matter what he wore.

"Not much time for an unscheduled practice," the Slytherin remarked, his eyes cast down as he redid the clasp on his robes and smoothed them down. "You probably have one of your meetings soon, don't you?"

Harry shook his head but then nodded in agreement. There was no point in denying it. Draco had already noticed the fact that Harry 'had to be somewhere' every night by eight, from the few times they'd still been in the dungeons by that time. He never asked where Harry was going or what he did each night, and the complete lack of interest in his life was quite the relief to Harry. "Yeah. I'll have to leave by quarter-till," he said, and there was no need for further explanation. They took up their regular positions, and Harry instructed the blond, as he had so many times in the past week, "Okay, let's try it once more. Think of the happiest memory you can and, while focusing on that feeling: _Expecto patronum_."

His face serious with focus, Malfoy moved his wand in precisely the right motion and repeated dutifully, " _Expecto patronum._ " Nothing happened. Absolutely, positively nothing. Not even a slight silvery wisp to indicate that he was on the right track.

"You _have_ been practicing on your own?" Harry asked, leaning back against the desk in the middle of the room. It was clear of dust now that they took turns using it to study. Malfoy shrugged, which wasn't really a yes or a no, but Harry didn't honestly think that was the problem. "Look, everything seems right to me: the incantation, the wand movement, all the technicalities are spot on. I've taught a dozen other students to use this spell—even Neville Longbottom. And in all our research, we didn't find anything that said certain people simply can't summon a Patronus."

Malfoy's mouth was tightening, as if he knew Harry was only waiting to drop the other shoe. "And?" he demanded, chillier than he'd been since Harry walked in.

"I think," Harry hazarded, watching apprehensively in case Malfoy blew up at him, "I think it's whatever moment or feeling that you're focusing on that's the problem."

To Harry's surprise, Malfoy didn't get angry—or at least not until Harry asked him to share his memory so they could try to figure out what was blocking him from making progress. Then the blond looked almost uncomfortable as he snarled at Harry, "Did you ever think it might be a problem with your teaching methods?"

"I'm not claiming to be an expert or anything, so no need to be a git about it," Harry snapped back. "But this is the same way I learned the Patronus back in third year. I should think it would work for you now in sixth."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes at the Gryffindor for a moment, but then he looked away again. He still had that reluctant air about him as he spat, "Believe me, Potter. You don't want to hear it."

Harry made a gesture of impatience. "Probably not. Look, I don't care about your inner thoughts or whatever, Malfoy. I just don't want to be wasting my time working on this charm when we aren't getting anywhere. So spill."

Malfoy snapped back at Harry, "Fine! If you don't want to be _wasting your time_. You want to know what my happy memory was, Potter? It was when I first learned that Voldemort was back." Seeing Harry's disbelieving face, he continued on, "I hated you and knew you would be out of the picture soon enough with the Dark Lord's return. And it was what my father had always wanted, so by default, what I had always wanted. I thought that he'd be pleased, and that with me by his side in Voldemort's new order, that perhaps he would be pleased with _me_."

It was the first time Harry had heard Malfoy speak about his father since the previous year. But that didn't help at all to justify what the boy was saying. Harry felt almost ill as he asked, "Seriously, Malfoy? That's just disgusting. Your _happiest_ memory is when the enemy of everything in this world came back to life to wreak destruction again?"

The Slytherin shrugged, back in his element as he retreated back behind his sarcasm. "He isn't the enemy of everything in this world. He's just fine with Purebloods and puppy-dogs. Besides, I never said it was a _good_ thing that he was back. Just that it was the only thing that made me happy."

Harry pulled a disgusted face as he quizzed the other boy, "What about getting a good grade? A Quidditch win? What about going home or...or maybe leaving home?"

Malfoy just shrugged again, managing to make the gesture elegant and telling. "Nothing that you didn't ruin for me, Potter. If I passed my classes at the top of my house, it didn't matter because you'd saved the whole school again. Any Quidditch wins didn't matter, because I still always lost to you in our matches. Going home meant getting lectured about how I was letting 'The-Boy-Who-Bloody-Lived-To-Annoy' outshine me. Coming back to school meant being stuck face-to-face with _you_ again."

Harry swallowed the lump that seemed stuck in his throat. "No wonder you hated me," he muttered.

He realized immediately afterward that he'd used the past tense, which surely wasn't right. He waited uncomfortably to see if Malfoy would correct him, but Malfoy only waved a hand, as if dismissing the whole thing. "No, it wasn't all that, really. It was more to do with the fact that you rejected me in front of our entire class on the first day at Hogwarts." He leaned towards Harry, his eyes pinning the Gryffindor as he repeated himself, over-enunciating the words for effect, "The _entire class_ , Potter. On the very first day. Do you know how hard it was to live that down?" His lips curled up into one of those sharp smiles again. "You deserved every last iota of revenge I've managed to get in the past five years."

Then the blond leaned back again, his arms crossed and his face thoughtful as he tapped his fingers on the fabric of his expensive robes. He was probably trying to think of some other memory he could use for the charm, but all Harry could think about was the fact that apparently Malfoy had only started hating him because _Harry_ had told him he didn't want to be his friend when they were both eleven. The moment had hardly even registered to Harry. Malfoy had been nothing more than an unpleasant blip among the wonder of that night, as he'd walked into the castle for the first time, surrounded by other children who seemed ready to believe that he was one of them—and not just one of them, but someone that they wanted to have around.

Malfoy seemed to finish his mental inventory. He unfolded his arms and told Harry, "All right. I think I've got something worth a try." Without any more hesitation, he brought up his wand and intoned, " _Expecto patronum!_ "

A small silvery shape shot out of his wand and darted around their heads. When Harry's eyes became accustomed to the diamond brilliance, he realized he was focusing on a tiny, rather wispy dragon. He turned to the other boy with an eyebrow raised, ready to make a snarky comment about how stereotypical it was that he would have a _dragon_ as his Patronus, when he saw the Slytherin's face and stopped.

Malfoy looked shell-shocked. Harry didn't think he'd ever seen him show so much emotion, and he asked worriedly, "What is it? What did you think of? What memory could possibly be worse than Voldemort returning?"

But Malfoy refused to tell him anything. After all, how could he tell Harry, when the only memories that were strong enough to summon his Patronus featured the Gryffindor himself?

* * *

ONCE HE HAD GOT PAST his block, Draco had no trouble perfecting his Patronus charm. He'd been raised to master everything he was taught to the exacting standards of his father, so employing the correct wand movements and intonations had never been a problem. He was also fairly powerful in his own right, and he didn't become sweaty or drained as Harry had when he'd first been trying to learn the Patronus. Then again, Harry wasn't sure if Malfoy ever sweated—he seemed too determinedly posh for anything so dirty and undisciplined.

As he watched Malfoy cast perfect little silver dragons in the air, each about the length of his arm, Harry was musing aloud about whether there was some way they could get something real for him to practice against, like a boggart. Malfoy dismissed the latest Patronus and was about to cast again when they were interrupted by the sound of Ron Weasley's voice carrying down the hall.

"Hermione, I really don't know if this is a good idea. We have no idea where we are or where these dungeons even lead to. Hell, I didn't even know these dungeons existed. The map—"

Hermione cut Ron off as she snapped, "The map is irrelevant, except in that it shows Harry is down here somewhere, when he should be with Dumbledore, and that _Malfoy_ is down here, too. And don't swear, Ron."

Harry could now see his friends through the charmed wall, lit by the light coming from the wand Hermione was holding aloft with one hand. In her other hand, she held the Marauder's Map, and she was alternating between peering down at it and looking up at the wall in front of her.

Harry looked at Draco, who had blanched when he'd first seen the Gryffindors but had now approached the wall and was trying to see the piece of parchment in Hermione's hands. "Potter, what does she mean that map 'shows' us being here?" There was a greedy glint in Malfoy's eye, and Harry remembered the boy's kleptomanic tendencies.

Luckily Ron was still talking, which saved Harry from having to reply as the redhead exclaimed, "The map ended a mile ago, and Harry's nothing but a dot on the edge of the page—we don't know if he's five feet from us or five hundred! If you really think Malfoy did something to him, then we should tell Dumbledore or Lupin or—or someone!"

Hermione was now running her hands over the wall, and Malfoy was watching in fascination as her hands passed right in front of him, her none the wiser. "Look, the map still identifies Harry, even if there isn't any actual drawing for this part of the castle. And it shows us immediately to his left." She lifted the edge of the tapestry and found the door behind it. With a satisfied little, "Ha!" she pulled her wand and intoned smugly, " _Alohamora!_ " Nothing happened and so—realizing that she might have been a pre-emptive in assuming the door to be magically locked—she grabbed the handle and banged on the door with a fist.

Malfoy scrambled back behind Harry, hissing, "What do your crazy minions want, Potter?"

Harry nudged him with a shoulder and said reproachfully, "They aren't my minions—they're my friends. You're the only one with minions around here, Malfoy."

Hermione had tried another spell and was beginning to get angry, in that determined, I-will-solve-this-even-if-I-have-to-bring-down-the-whole-castle kind of way that only Hermione could pull off. She went back to banging on the door and yelling for Harry, while Draco exclaimed, "Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with your friends then, Potter?!"

Harry suggested weakly, "Um, I guess they want to talk to me?"

He walked over to the door and pulled it open while Hermione was taking a breather. "Er, hi, guys," he said, smiling sheepishly at his two best friends. They stared at him a moment before Hermione rushed towards Harry, only to find herself pushed back by a hugely powerful force that attempted to flatten her, crushing all the air out of her body.

She fell back into Ron, and he held her up as she gasped for breath, looking bewildered. "Harry! What did you do?"

Harry looked even more embarrassed than before and explained, "Ah. Er, right. Sorry. I really wouldn't recommend trying to enter this room. I put up a sort of ward to keep people out." Ron held out a hand unsurely and pushed into the open space of the doorway. It felt as if his hand was being squeezed in one of Hagrid's overly-enthusiastic handshakes, and when he tried to push farther into the room, it felt as if his very bones were being ground together.

He pulled his hand back and shook his head in disbelief at Harry, which caused him to notice Malfoy leaning against a window in the strange underground room that didn't have any right to have windows anyway. The map had made it clear that Malfoy was also in the area, but that didn't really make it any easier to accept the truth of the scene: Harry really was meeting down here with Malfoy, and it didn't look like the two had been cursing each other or anything. Harry's school tie was hanging loose around his neck, there were schoolbooks and parchment scattered about the room, and the two boys' bags were both open on the ground, as if they were just—just two friends studying together, while Ron and Hermione had been with all of their fellow year mates to talk about Dean.

Malfoy watched as Weasley's face darkened, an angry flush creeping along his neck and all the way up his ears. He wasn't too worried, though, since it seemed clear that Potter's mad little cronies couldn't touch him as long as he was stayed in the room Harry had warded. But he kept his wand at the ready, in case they should decide to start throwing hexes through the doorway.

Hermione bristled as she pushed herself up away from Ron's hold, and she launched into a McGonagallesque lecture about Harry's frivolous and reckless uses of magic, his decision to flout his meeting with the undoubtedly busy headmaster, and the ridiculous choice to spend this evening with _Malfoy_ instead of his fellow Gryffindors. She shot a glare at Malfoy, but it didn't seem quite as loathing as usual. It almost looked like some kind of warning—as if she knew something that Harry didn't about the blond.

"All right, all right, I'm coming," the black-haired boy agreed, ducking down to pick up his pack from the floor. His gaze caught Malfoy's as he straightened up, and he rolled his eyes in exasperation, but he didn't offer any words to the Slytherin before he turned away and began to push his two angry friends out of the doorway.

"I'll kick your arse next time, scarface," Draco called after him, simply because he could. He was rewarded by getting to watch Ron lunge at the door, as though his hatred was stronger than any pain the wards might cause him. Draco laughed to himself as he watched Harry drag his protesting friend back towards to the castle main, then he went to the window and picked up his book once again, removing his notes to return to his reading.

* * *

AS HARRY PULLED HIS FRIENDS along, he was trying not to let his own temper get the better of him. He couldn't entirely blame them for being upset that he'd chosen the dungeons over the house get-together, and maybe they really had been genuinely worried that Malfoy might have done something to him. He wouldn't have put it past the Slytherin, if you'd asked him just a month ago. But they'd also gone through his trunk to find and take the Marauder's Map, without even asking him. Not that they could have asked, since he hadn't been around, but all the better reason not to go nosing around in his business when he obviously wanted to get away for a while.

He spent the long walk back to the Great Hall arguing back and forth with himself about whether he wanted to say anything about it, but once they got back to the bright hall, they were brought up short by Dumbledore, who was waiting near the entrance way. "Ah, Harry, my boy. There you are. Safe and sound, I see?"

Harry nodded shortly. "Sorry that I missed our meeting, Headmaster. I must have lost track of the time." He knew he sounded sullen, not even bothering to inject any sincerity into the apology, but he couldn't make himself care enough to pretend any better. Dumbledore didn't seem inclined to push the point either. He turned to Hermione instead.

"Miss Granger, thank you again for your concern. I'm glad that Harry has such loyal friends and that we have such a resourceful witch helping the Order of the Phoenix. Please come talk to me again any time." He spared a twinkling smile for Ron as well. "And Mr. Weasley, of course. You are also welcome anytime you wish to speak to someone." Both his friends seemed flattered by the offer, stammering out their thanks. Harry simply nodded good-bye to the old man, then continued to lead his friends on towards Gryffindor Tower.

Any thought of picking a fight over the Marauder's Map was forgotten. Harry didn't like the way Dumbledore had spoken to Hermione. It wasn't that the headmaster shouldn't be friendly with other students, but something about the way he had suggested that Hermione come talk with him _again_ made Harry wary. What had she been talking to the headmaster about in the first place? Hermione had seemed a bit off lately, sometimes refusing to meet his eyes or acting guilty about something even though Harry knew nothing she should be feeling guilty for. Unless maybe she'd been talking to Dumbledore about him.

Harry shook his head. _I know I've been hanging out with that Slytherin too much when I even start suspecting my best friends._

* * *

IT WASN'T FOR SEVERAL DAYS that Harry met his pet Slytherin again—this time completely by chance. Though he hadn't been seeking Malfoy out all those times he'd gone to the dungeon room. Of course not. But he definitely couldn't have been expected the whole Slytherin Quidditch team to come out for practice in the -3 degree weather. Not at the precise time that he had also fled to the pitch to get a break from Gryffindor Tower and his housemates' ongoing wish to grieve together.

Harry continued to fly in aimless loops as he watched the green-clad figures trail onto the field. It was clear they'd seen him as well, and he watched their monstrous shadows stretch in the low winter sunlight as they mounted their Nimbus 2001's. The whole team flew up to meet him, but it was Malfoy who predictably came head-to-head with Harry. The rest of the Quidditch team circled around him, and even the captain seemed to assume that it was Malfoy who had the right to confront Harry Potter.

"Get out of here, Potter. We booked the pitch for practice, though I know that you obviously need it more." Malfoy sneered at Harry and jerked his chin to the side, dismissing the Gryffindor. Harry thought about pushing back, but both Crabbe and Goyle had their Beater clubs out and handy, so he decided it probably wouldn't be the best thing for his health to try it.

The rest of the team began to scatter as soon as they saw Harry shrug and turn his broom toward the ground. But he'd hardly gone ten feet before he heard the familiar sound of a Bludger speeding at him, and he ducked out of habit. The ball went careening off into the approaching dusk as Harry whirled about to find Malfoy grinning madly at him. The cold expression from before was nowhere to be seen now, perhaps because the rest of the Slytherin team were spread so far behind him that they couldn't see his face as he smirked at Harry. The blond gave a quick wink, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "You're going to have be better than that, Potter, if you expect to beat Slytherin this year."

Harry flicked him the one-fingered salute, though the Slytherin might not be that wrong. The team had already been in a crisis since Fred and George Weasley had dropped out of school the previous year, and then Angelina and Katie had both graduated as well. Alicia had been the most senior member of the team and they'd made her captain by default. But Alicia had been on the train back to the Muggle world. Now Harry was the most senior member of the team left, and he thought Ron would be a much better captain than he could be, if it came down a choice between them. Catching the snitch for 150 points was more than enough responsibility for Harry.

He wended his way behind the seats of the Quidditch pitch and tossed his broom to the side. He tried to Banish it back to his dorm with a wave of his hand but wasn't surprised the attempt at wandless magic didn't work. He was probably lucky he hadn't accidentally made his broom disappear forever.

Sighing, he pulled out his wand and performed the charm the conventional way before throwing himself down on the grass. Wrapping his cloak more firmly around himself, he pulled up his gold and red Gryffindor scarf to protect his face from the cold. When that didn't do much against the biting wind, he cast a warming charm on his cloak, and finally he was encased in a toasty cocoon of comfort.

Watching the sky slowly pick up a golden hue and tinge the few clouds on the horizon with a rosy blush, he wondered what he should say to his friends when he went back in. He wasn't trying to make things worse. He knew that his absence was utterly conspicuous, and that it was only making Hermione and Ron more upset with him, and he felt bad about it. But not bad enough to actually want to head back into Gryffindor Tower yet.

He couldn't just be himself there. Harry didn't want to talk about Dean or Dennis or Alicia or any of it. He didn't want to think anymore about what had happened. What good would that do? It wouldn't bring them back. And if he sat in the common room working on his homework or reading _Quidditch Through the Ages_ or doing anything other than crying into his sleeve or rubbing people's backs as they sniveled, then he looked the ass.

It wasn't like he wasn't sorry they'd died. He was. He was horrified at the thought of how they'd died. But once the initial shock had faded, there hadn't been anything to pin the feeling onto and keep it there. They lived in a boarding school, and at the end of every term, they said good-bye to one another and went their separate ways and never saw each other again for months. Why should it seem any different this time? Why should it seem _real_ this time that they weren't coming back—that they weren't even there _to_ come back? 

Everyone that Harry had loved and lost—his parents, Sirius, now his old friends from school—all of them had simply disappeared out of his life one day. They were there, and then they were gone. No bodies. Nothing to hold onto or bury. At least with Cedric, he'd been able to feel to reality of death. But when he tried to imagine that Dean Thomas was actually dead, the same boy that he'd seen every morning of school life for the past five years, he just couldn't make himself feel it. He didn't really want to.

He rolled over on his side, pulling his charmed cloak more tightly around him. The sun was actually setting now, the last glaring beams prying into his slitted eyes. He squinted and then pulled off his glasses, cradling them loosely in his hand as he sunk into the heat-induced stupor that his charm had brought on. His eyes slipped shut and somewhere in his daze, he thought he heard a distinct whisper of his name. His mind scrabbled after that quiet utterance, but he was too far gone already and fell into the welcoming blackness of his sleep.

When he woke up in the dark, Harry wasn't sure if minutes or hours had passed. The stars had begun to appear overhead, and someone was kicking against his foot softly but repeatedly.

"Malfoy?" he asked, wincing at how his voice croaked.

The blond head popped into Harry's line of sight, and though he couldn't see all that well, Harry thought the other boy looked surprised. "How did you know it was me?" the Slytherin asked, sounding genuinely curious as he plucked Harry's glasses out of the dazed boy's grasp.

Draco brought the glasses up to his own face and winced at the strength of Harry's prescription, before pocketing the glasses for himself. Harry was looking at him reproachfully and sounded rather petulant when he protested, "Not my glasses, Malfoy. I really can't see well without them." Draco was fascinated, though, to see the black-haired boy without his usual protections. With the heavy black frames gone, his green eyes seemed brighter and wider, sooty black lashes framing eyes that Draco had never paid much attention to before. There was something vulnerable in that naked face that left Draco feeling ill to his core.

He looked away and swallowed convulsively as the Gryffindor got around to answering his earlier question. "I knew it was you," Harry grumbled, "because no one else could be quite so annoying."

Draco flopped back onto the ground beside the other boy, and he could feel those weighty green eyes on him, like insidious vines of Devil's snare that were wrapping themselves around him and choking his self-control. He could tell from his peripheral vision that Potter was looking over at him in some surprise. "Draco Malfoy rolling around in the dirt and grass? This has got to be a first."

Draco could hear the questioning note in Harry's mockery, and he tried to summon up an appropriate amount of scorn as he fired back: "And Harry Potter sleeping with Draco Malfoy on the Quidditch pitch?" That shut the prat up. "Besides, my dear fool, these are Quidditch robes (and I have been practicing Quidditch for the last two hours), so they are already quite filthy. Moreover, these are Slytherin Quidditch robes, so they are filthy and _green_ —so your paltry threats of dirty grass can't frighten me." A few minutes later, he finally looked over at Harry again, only to see that the Gryffindor boy had fallen back into a dark silence, his face clouded over with some gloomy emotion. He looked away again at once. Then he suggested, "Let's fly."

He jumped up and quickly summoned another Nimbus 2001 from the Slytherin stock, holding it tantalizingly above Harry's head. "Up, up, Potter. This time I'll beat you good and fair." He paused, then corrected himself. "Well, no, not fair. But I'll beat you good, now that you are without your precious Firebolt." Potter didn't react, and Draco cocked an eyebrow expectantly. "Come on, Potter: _up_. No one likes a whiny little loser who won't play just because he's about to get thoroughly trounced."

He grinned, wholly unrepentant, and Harry stared at the blond. This wasn't the first time he'd thrown some distraction in Harry's face when he was upset, instead of pouring salt on the wound or picking a fight by making fun of him. Was Malfoy aware he was doing it? Could he consciously be trying to cheer Harry up? Harry didn't think he could imagine Draco Malfoy purposefully trying to make anyone feel better, not even his so-called friends like Goyle or Pansy. Yet there he was, holding out a broom and offering to let Harry leave all his troubles behind and fly freely through the sky, where he belonged.

Harry lunged upward and grabbed the chance that was being offered to him. "You're on, Malfoy."

He pulled out his wand and quickly performed the charm to perfect his eyesight, and Draco was surprised to see those open green eyes focus on him properly without squinting. Harry smirked, "Surely you didn't think I was going to give you a handicap by letting you steal my glasses?" Harry jumped astride the broom and spiraled quickly up into the freezing night air.

He was surprised to feel the sheer number of spells on the Nimbus 2001 and yelled his sentiments suspiciously at Malfoy. The other boy openly laughed and was flitting about Harry in a playful mockery of the close tagging he would often adopt in their matches, bumping knees and elbows as he called back, "We're Slytherins. What do you expect? But I'll have you know that there is not one illegal spell on these brooms." He grinned again. "There are many."

Harry shook his head, and they flew in silence as the stars rose, both performing little tricks to out-do one another but without any insults or baiting, just fierce smiles and the thrill of competition. Eventually Malfoy pulled out a practice snitch, one that was charmed not to fly outside the boundaries of the pitch or above four hundred feet in the air. He released it, and Harry, feeling cocky, caught it before it had gone fifteen feet.

Draco frowned his disapproval and took the snitch again, slapping Harry's hand as he did so. This time he released it and let the little golden ball get a hundred-foot lead by holding Harry's hand back to keep the Gryffindor from whizzing after it. Harry was still waiting patiently, good little Gryffindor that he was, when Draco released his wrist and took off, calling behind him, "Now!"

Screaming profanities as he laughed, Harry shot after the silver blur of Draco in the moonlight. They rocketed after the little ball in the cold air currents as it capriciously darted about, knocking shoulders and scraping each other's legs as each tried to pull ahead, but they were almost a perfect match for each other on the identical brooms. That time Draco caught the snitch, the first time he had ever caught it when playing against Harry, but he wasn't thinking about that. They kept playing as the hour grew later and the stars turned in the sky, and they ended up with Draco in the lead at three to two. (Though Draco insisted that Harry's first catch had been blatant cheating and shouldn't be counted, while Harry insisted that he hadn't played in almost an entire year, so was out of practice, on an unfamiliar broom, and still had beat Malfoy twice.)

The myopic Gryffindor Seeker had renewed the spell on his eyes twice already. It was nearing ten p.m. and the school's curfew. Of course, they weren't supposed to have been out on the grounds once the sun had set, but neither boy was a model for following school rules.

They were once again drifting slowly along in the night, the practice snitch stowed back in one of Malfoy's pockets for the time being. Harry watched enviously as the blond lay sprawled on his broom, his arms and legs hanging over the sides like some indolent cat. The git somehow managed to make it look not only secure but comfortable, too. Harry was leaning far forward on his borrowed broom as well, his chin resting on his folded hands and his legs wrapped around the broom's sleek black tail. He was musing to himself about the Slytherin Seeker, flying around with his greatest rival (namely Harry, the Gryffindor Seeker) and letting said Gryffindor even use a Slytherin broom. It was unheard of, and it had better stay that way if both of them wanted to keep their skins.

He studied Malfoy, who looked like some ethereal specter in the weak moonlight, and wondered again what this was. Enemies didn't do things like this. Harry would never fly around with Voldemort or cry in front of Pettigrew or even willingly ask Snape about his opinions on the war (though Snape wasn't technically his enemy any longer). Yet, it didn't feel quite like the way he hung out with his friends—or even the D.A. members, which would seem the most comparable, since he was supposed to just be teaching Malfoy the same things that he'd taught the D.A. before. What was it then?

Malfoy sounded characteristically uninterested as he asked, "So why are you avoiding the castle?"

Enemies definitely didn't ask after your mental state either. Unless it was to taunt. Harry looked sharply at the other Seeker. _Nope, no taunting._

"It's too oppressive," he muttered.

Draco snorted and didn't sound too impressed when he retorted, "Yes, a couple hundred tons of stone can seem that way."

_Okay, so a bit of taunting._

The blond turned his head to Harry, his long hair buffeted by the wind. "You know they've probably sent a search party out for you by now."

Harry could see his own rather shaggy black hair blowing in his eyes, obscuring his view of the pale Slytherin. "Not very effective then, are they?"

Draco glared and reached over to shove Harry, nearly upsetting himself in the process. Harry's heart stopped for a moment, and he grabbed the blond in a firm grip before Draco would tip entirely off his broomstick. Harry hissed into the ear near his face, "You're such a prat, Malfoy. You'd seriously kill yourself just to get one over on me?" He could feel Malfoy's heart pounding rapidly where he had one arm locked across the slender boy's chest. Good thing that Draco was almost as slight as Harry himself was, since he would have been hard pressed to pull up someone as large as Ron from falling.

The Slytherin boy pushed himself back onto his own broom, feeling the cold of the night air again as Harry's warm arm slipped away. His voice was light, even if his heart was still racing, as he said, "Yeah, right, you know I'm just dying to get my hands on you, Potter. Anyway, you'd probably better run back to your tower before your friends come looking to string me up like last time."

It would be too odd to protest, as if he wanted to spend more time here with Malfoy. And there was something strained in Malfoy's pale face, which made him think he might regret pushing the other boy. So Harry followed the Slytherin when he pointed his broom down again, passing through large, lazy loops as they descended back to the earth. But Harry was still watching Draco carefully when they landed, and as he handed back the Slytherin broom, he asked, "You'll be all right?" He waited a beat too long before adding on some plausible cover for the question. "Getting the brooms put away on your own, that is."

Malfoy slung both Nimbus brooms over his shoulder, looking down his nose at Harry from the scant few inches he had on the Gryffindor. "Oh please. I'm clearly not the one of us here who is so desperately in need of help."

 _I know_.

Harry looked back at the blond for a moment, before nodding and turning away.

_So why are you helping me?_

"Thanks," he said shortly, his back still to Malfoy. It could be that he was only thanking him for putting the two brooms back. But he wasn't.

"Anytime," Malfoy called back, voice quiet in the dark, and Harry's shoulders hitched up, without him even meaning for them to do so. _Do you mean that?_

_You can't possibly mean that._

_It's not like we're friends._

Harry walked back to the castle, refusing to glance back over his shoulder.

_What is this?_


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 05**

HARRY HAD TO WAKE THE Fat Lady to get back into Gryffindor Tower that night. Luckily he didn't encounter any of the upper years who might stop him to talk in the common room, and the couple younger students who were awake were too awed to even speak to him, let alone ask where he'd been after curfew. But when he let himself into his dorm, he pulled back the curtains on his bed to find Ron waiting there for him. His usually kind-faced friend looked rather severe as he pulled Harry into the canopied bed and then cast a low-level Silencing spell to keep their conversation from waking the other two boys in the dorm.

Harry was horribly conscious of how wind-blown he looked as he sat down opposite his friend, and he tried to flatten his hair with his palms. There was nothing he could do about the bright red spots burning on cheeks, chapped by the wind and the sub-zero weather. He could even catch a whiff of the pitch on himself, a smell of cold night air and crushed grass, and his hand reached up to unconsciously adjust his glasses—which made him realize that Malfoy still had his glasses, and his aborted motion only drew Ron's attention to the fact as well. Damn the little kleptomaniac.

"Harry, where have you been all night? You're half-frozen and dirty and where the _bloody hell_ are your glasses?"

Harry leaned over the edge of the bed to unlace his shoes, and his voice came out muffled as he said simply, "I was out flying. I'm really out of practice since last year."

Ron mentally reviewed his encyclopedic knowledge of all things Quidditch. "But Slytherin had the pitch booked for tonight. And your Firebolt was here when we came up."

Harry set his shoes on the floor, pointing them outward, always ready to run. He sat back up and said, "Yeah, I was out there earlier, and then the Slytherin team came out. So I sent my broom back here to the dorm and stayed out on the field behind the pitch for a while, until their team left."

Ron peered at him. "You were out there with...the Slytherins?" Then he groaned and looked askance at his friend. "Not Malfoy. Please tell me you weren't out there with Malfoy."

Harry had shrugged out of his cloak and robes and was giving far too much attention to the garments as he painstakingly folded each. He didn't look at Ron as he said, "Malfoy was out there, too, but I wouldn't say that I was out there _with_ him."

The ginger boy looked pained as he turned away, not facing his best friend. "I don't know what you're up to these days, Harry. I know that you don't like to deal with all this, and I know you've got a lot of pressure on you, but—but mucking about with a dirty Slytherin is going to help anything!" Harry couldn't say anything in response, and so Ron continued. "Harry, we really need you around here! All the younger years are frightened and don't understand what's going on. Even us uppers are petrified. Neville is defying his family by staying here—you should've heard the Howler from his gran. Dean is gone. And Seamus—did you even know? Seamus lost his little sister in the primary school attack."

Harry's head jerked up to stare at his miserable friend as the prefect admitted to him, "I'm trying to keep them all afloat and at the same time hold Hermione up. There's only one seventh year girl left, so Hermione is the one struggling to keep all the girls together. But I'm not meant for this, mate. I'm no good at giving them hope." He saw Harry open his mouth to protest but rushed on before Harry could speak, "I know, I know, you resent the hell out of it, and you don't think there's anything special about you, but _there is_. If you could only see the way people look up to you! If you say we can beat this, then the others will believe it. We need you, Harry. _I_ need you—I need you to help me out here."

The green-eyed boy looked as miserable as his friend now. Harry really didn't believe he could do much, and he really didn't want to be put in the position where he'd be forced to, but for Ron to talk about these things so frankly meant things really were bad—and it was maybe Harry's fault, yet again, for ignoring them all. Feeling defeat settle over him, he assured his friend, "I'm sorry, Ron. I didn't know about Seamus's sister. Or half of what's been going on around here. I guess I've been avoiding it all." He drew in a deep breath, steeling himself. "I promise I'll be here more often. I'll do whatever I can—and the least I can do is to be here with you all."

Ron beamed at Harry in a way he hadn't for some while and briefly jostled Harry's arm. He pushed himself up from the bed and said sincerely, "Thanks, mate. It'll be really great to have you back with us."

The curtains dropped back into place after Ron's departure and left Harry feeling more alone than he had even out on the field with no one else in sight. He quickly stripped off the rest of his uniform and scrambled into his pajamas and then under the sheets, trying to fight off the threatening cold. He couldn't believe only thirty minutes ago he had been out flying happily and was now so firmly chained to the ground again. But this was all he could do. Voldemort wasn't around for him to fight off, so rallying the rest of the school was the only thing the vaunted Boy Who Lived could do.

* * *

THE NEXT DAY HARRY MADE a point to be present with his house. At meals, he actually stuck around for the entire period, forcing himself to be an active part of the conversations and engaging the younger students as well. They even pulled some of the Ravenclaws at the next table into their chatter. Gryffindor was on its way to regaining its title as the noisiest table in the hall, and that evening the upper Gryffindors were some of the last to leave the Great Hall after dinner. When they finally did, they all travelled together in a great pack, with Harry Potter at their center.

Draco watched curiously from where he sat with his own ruling party, fingering the pair of glasses that were still in his pocket. He wasn't sure how Potter had explained away their absence, but Draco wasn't going to give them back unless Harry took them back. He couldn't say just why he had taken them—or why he always took things. It had started when he was young: the need to _take_. It wasn't just that he was taking he wanted—most of the time, he couldn't even use the things that he took. So it wasn't just a spoilt child's greed. It was more about having something that wasn't given to him or bought with his father's money. The only things which meant anything were the things that he could take for himself.

He saw Blaise watching him in a predatory manner and quickly knocked up his haughtiness by a couple degrees. He sneered thin-lipped at the hungry upstart then he got up, signaling for those around him to leave as well. Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy didn't hesitate. A few of the older students followed almost immediately and most of the younger kids started shuffling up after looking around uncertainly for a couple moments. He was still in control for now, but he knew his days as the unspoken leader of Slytherin house were numbered.

* * *

BACK UP IN THE TOWER, Harry was feeling stifled in the close room, thanks to the cheery fires that burned constantly in the Gryffindor common room. He thought longingly of brisk starlit breezes and flying free in the grass-scented night, but everyone else seemed happier than they had in the last week, now that the heart of the house had returned. The whole of Gryffindor house—all of its surviving members, now totaling up to just over forty students—were basking in the reassurance of Harry's presence, as if he alone would make up for all those who were missing. The Gryffindors were doing homework, studying for exams, gossiping about teachers and students alike. It was almost normal, and it should have been comforting to Harry, but somehow the atmosphere that would have been so welcome just two or three years ago was now grating on him.

After living locked in a cupboard for most of his life, it had at first been a marvel to Harry to be surrounded by people who actually wanted him around as well. But after the initial wonder had worn off, it was sometimes overwhelming to never be alone or quiet; to constantly be surrounded by the never-ending chattering of all these happy moods. It was something like the hum of white noise which you don't notice at first, but once you do begin to listen to it, you can't ignore it again. But he had promised Ron to stick around more, and so he would just have to endure it—and try to forget quiet nights spent on a deserted Quidditch field.

* * *

IT WAS POTIONS CLASS ON Wednesday, and Harry had been getting accustomed to being a full-fledged Gryffindor again. His transformation seemed completed by Malfoy's coldness towards him in class. Harry felt as if the last few weeks might have been a dream—here he was back in the bosom of Gryffindor house and once again being insulted and ignored in turns by Malfoy. If it hadn't been for Harry's missing glasses, he might have thought it truly was some bizarre delusion summoned up by his overstressed mind. But his glasses were gone, prompting Harry to have to constantly recast the spell to give himself proper vision and to have to endure the teasing of his classmates, who all thought he'd finally ditched the glasses out of (perhaps not entirely misplaced) vanity.

He glanced over at Malfoy again. After sieving the Veritaserum potion through a net painstakingly woken from thestral mane and demiguise hair to remove any of the diamond chips and silver dragon scales that might be left after the two weeks of soaking, they had left the milky potion to be chilled for the additional two weeks it took for the moon to cycle from new to full again. Once they'd revealed the sparkling clear potions the previous week, the partner work had been concluded, and the Gryffindors had gone back to their regular places, making room for the influx of Ravenclaws and the few Hufflepuffs that had been combined with their class.

That last partnered class had been just before his and Malfoy's bit of late-night Quidditch pickup. Now the blond seemed to be ignoring him in a concentrated manner. But when Malofy shucked his robes to stand over a steaming cauldron and stir his boiling potion, Harry could recognize the black arm of a pair of cheap glasses, poking out of Draco's font shirt pocket. At least no one else seemed to notice, but Harry himself didn't understand what it meant. If he were acting like he had been recently, Malfoy would have winked at Harry or made some deliberately provoking comment, but he was just wearing those glasses on him as a silent badge of the encounter. Harry shook his head, and kept his speculation—and frustrated feelings—to himself as he kept himself firmly on the Gryffindor side of the classroom.

* * *

SEVERUS SNAPE WAS STARING MERCILESSLY at the student in front of him, his dark eyes so demanding that Harry might have sworn that the professor was using Legilimency. They were working on a sophisticated sleeping potion, one that could not be broken without a specific antidote made by the same brewer as the original potion. Snape, never one to beat around the bush, said brusquely, "Why does Draco have your glasses, Potter?"

Okay, so maybe Harry hadn't been the only one to notice the glasses. His mind scrambled against the smooth glassy wall of Snape's black eyes. Should he deny it? Say that Malfoy had stolen his glasses as a prank? Admit that he'd actually been spending time with the Slytherin boy by choice?

Snape's glare continued to bore into him, and he told Harry, "I know that you have been consorting with Malfoy recently." He paused and then reminded the student, "Your devil's snare sap is boiling over. Do try to pay attention." Harry had completely blanked on his potion and hurriedly cast a cooling charm on his cauldron.

He wiped up the hot sticky mess with a towel and said, "I thought, sir, that you disliked Malfoy."

The Potion Master's attitude toward the Malfoy heir had gotten worse, if anything, as the term progressed, and Snape agreed at once, "That is certainly true, understatement though it may be."

Harry wrung the towel in his hands and attempted a weak smile as he said, "Well, you certainly dislike me. So there should be no problem: you can be rid of the two of us at once, because we'll surely kill one another if we keep spending time together."

The professor spoke in a withering voice, perfectly still even in the face of Harry's nervous twittering about. "Be that as it may, Potter, your mutual homicide is not at all the point, except in that Dumbledore would be less than pleased were one of my students to kill his poster boy—and Dumbledore's displeasure would greatly inconvenience me." He fixed his gaze on the Gryffindor, almost entirely dropping his usual sarcasm for a moment. "There is much at risk now. It's not time to put your trust in the wrong people."

Harry didn't try another smile. He asked seriously, with no intent to offend (or, at least, not too much), "Do you mean I should stay away from the Slytherins, Professor?"

The Potions Master seemed to lose a bit of his tension when it looked like Harry wasn't going to argue with him. "No, you shouldn't write anyone off simply because the shortcomings of their house." He looked pointedly at the Gryffindor crest on Harry's robes before latching back on those startling green eyes, the exact shade of the killing curse, and he added, "But you cannot trust Malfoy."

* * *

HARRY RECEIVED MUCH THE SAME message the next night when he had his weekly lesson with the headmaster. They were now fully underway with Harry's training in Legilimency. He couldn't yet hold a candle to Dumbledore or Snape, either of whom would leave you with a disconcerting feeling that he could read your mind, but with a force so subtle that he could pass for just canny. Yet Harry had shown a precocious ability for Legilimency (though it didn't really surprise anyone, given his years of experience with Voldemort in his mind). He could even break through Dumbledore's defenses from time to time, as he was doing now.

Legilimency was a lesson in subtlety, a characteristic Harry had seen plenty of in both the men who'd taught him Occlumency. If he tried to hammer Dumbledore with a brutish onslaught of power—as Snape had often done to him the previous year—then he would find himself exhausting his strength needlessly against walls as solid as the very castle's. But when he slowly extended tiny tendrils of power, like the infantile vines of a leech root plant, he could sometimes find little chinks in the insurmountable wall and break through into the chaotic rush that was Dumbledore's well of memories and inner thoughts. It wouldn't have worked, of course, if Dumbledore hadn't sat still and let him struggle at it. But this was all for practice still.

Tonight Harry was strained and sweating with effort before he felt that wall give—but considering that Dumbledore was probably one of the world's leaders in Occlumency, it was still no mean accomplishment. When Dumbledore's last defense fell, Harry found himself unprepared for a barrage of memories that featured a boy who had more than passing resemblance to Harry himself, despite the other boy's Slytherin robes.

Dumbledore's voice seemed to echo from a number of different occasions, "I must ask you if there's anything you'd like to tell me, anything at all?"

The young Tom Riddle looked solemn, and he shook his dark head as he said, "No, there isn't anything." The memories flickered, skipping like a scratched DVD might on Dudley's big-screen TV, and Harry was baffled to see the image of Tom flashing in and out with what looked to be the present day's Draco Malfoy, looking as old as he did now and repeating the same words.

There were a dizzying series of images from what seemed to be an interview that Dumbledore had held with Malfoy, but Harry couldn't tell if it was running forward or backward, the jerky movements of Draco's seeming so bizarre compared to the blond's usual poise.

There was Tom leading a faithful pack of Slytherins and even some other houses' students through the halls, and the image smeared into Malfoy with his own court, striding out of the Great Hall just shortly after a figure Harry had recognized as himself had left. He saw Tom leaving the school after he graduated, and Harry could feel the shock of Dumbledore's impotent anger, burning as he watched the boy he'd failed to bring back to the Light walk away for the last time.

Harry was struck again by the dizzying montage of Draco and Riddle both denying the headmaster, the face and voice flickering between the dark boy and the light. Then a startlingly clear and steady image of his thirteen year old self, saying defiantly, "No, there isn't anything, Professor..." The image of his own younger face slowed, bled, smeared into a sluggish fade to white that obscured everything else before...

Harry felt himself physically rocked as he was expelled from the headmaster's thoughts. Both the garbled and confused imagery and his violent expulsion were due to Dumbledore's hugely powerful defenses, which had reinstated themselves and forced Harry out. When Harry looked up at him, the old man was smiling benignly behind his half-moon glasses, and somehow Harry was the one left feeling violated and exposed. He really hated these lessons.

But Dumbledore commended him on his progress, assuring Harry that if the boy could break through even his defenses, he had the potential to be a great Legilimens. "Truly, Harry. I hope you won't let it go to your head, but it's just that very few people have ever managed to get past me at all. Voldemort hardly ever has, and Professor Snape never once has."

The Gryffindor swallowed hard. He'd been forbidden from using Legilimency on anyone else outside these lessons, and the thought of even trying it made him uncomfortable. He asked instead, "What was all that with Draco Malfoy, sir?"

Dumbledore took off his spectacles and polished them thoughtfully. "Yes, Mr. Malfoy. He is creating quite a conundrum." He slipped the glasses back on, fixing his piercing blue eyes on Harry, and said, "Mr. Malfoy represents a great deal to certain corners of the Pureblood community, as well as being a formidable young wizard in his own right. He could be a very troublesome opponent, if he commits himself to the Dark. Or he could be one of the greatest weapons for our side. For both these reasons, we must try to save Mr. Malfoy, if even from himself."

Harry stilled. Was even Dumbledore hoping he could turn Malfoy into another spy, like Snape was? His mouth felt dry, and he had to lick his lips before he could ask, "Would you trust Malfoy, sir?"

Dumbledore smiled a bit sadly as he said, "Someone as powerful as the young Malfoy should never be completely trusted. It would be too much of a liability."

Harry felt an uncomfortable prickling that Dumbledore's description could be applied to himself as well. For the first time, instead of only feeling angry over the sense that he was just a piece in Dumbledore's plans, Harry felt a cold touch of fear. The headmaster went on speaking and, although his voice was sad, Harry didn't think that the note of sorrow was for Malfoy's sake. It seemed rather to be Dumbledore's disappointment that another student had slipped from his good influence. "Alas, I think that Mr. Malfoy may be too far gone for us. Decisions may have to be made on his behalf." He smiled at Harry, and the boy felt chilled. "You, my boy, should just focus on your own training. You're still a great asset to our side."

He couldn't help wondering, _And what if you decide that I'm not...?_

* * *

HARRY WAS STILL UNSETTLED WHEN he went with Ron and Hermione to visit Hagrid Saturday morning. Their friendship with Hogwart's resident half-giant had suffered the previous year, both because of his long absence and because of how evasive he'd been acting over his half-brother Grawp being secreted away in the Dark Forest. This was the first time they'd gone to see him outside class since school had started. It was nearly November, and the cold snap that had started a little over a week ago had lessened slightly, but the temperature was still at or below freezing—putting an extra briskness in their hurried walk across the grounds.

Hagrid was expecting them, since Harry had sent Hedwig with a note for his old friend. When the groundskeeper pulled open the door to his cozy little hut, the familiar smell of his rock cakes wafted out to greet them. Harry smiled, the smell bringing back to him the comfort he'd always found with his unassuming first friend, and Hagrid pulled the trio inside jovially, pushing them into the overlarge chair where they squeezed in half on top of each other, no longer as small as they'd once been. The large man dropped himself down on his own huge bed.

After their polite refusal of Hagrid's cooking ("Oh, we couldn't possibly—just ate breakfast, you know."), the group of old friends fell into familiar conversations. Hagrid asked after Ron's family and mentioned the latest update from Charlie on little Norbert, the Norwegian Ridgeback that Hagrid had illegally acquired in their first year. They talked briefly about how things were normalizing again in the castle but didn't bring up the war or the lost students otherwise. Hagrid filled them in on this year's attempts to civilize his fully-giant half-brother, Grawp.

The morning passed pleasantly, and Harry had to do very little talking. The others kept the conversation going for him while he sipped a huge mug of tea and sometimes let his mind wander out across the fields. He was only dragged back to the present when he realized Ron and Hermione were getting up to leave, and Harry hurriedly put his cup on the table beside theirs as they pulled on their heavy cloaks again. While he was winding his scarf around his neck, though, Hagrid pulled him aside and asked him to stay for a couple more minutes to discuss a 'private matter'. Only slightly wary, Harry agreed and waved his friends on ahead of him.

He turned back to see the half-giant shifting nervously, his eyes darting around without really fixing on Harry. Hagrid stumbled over his speech, saying, "Er, well, yeh see, Harry—yeh see, the thing of it is..." Harry smiled at the familiarity of his friend's uncomfortable rambling, wondering what trouble Hagrid had got himself into this time. Another illegal pet? Relationship woes with Madame Maxime?

"The thing of it is, I saw yeh and Malfoy the other night," Hagrid said, and Harry's smile died a quick, painful death. Hagrid was wringing his hands worriedly. "Now, Harry, I don't wan' yeh ter think I'm tellin' yeh how ter live yer own life. I mean, I don't like the young Malfoy myself, but—but..." He shook his head and muttered, "Well, tha's not really the point, is it. Not up to how I feel..."

The dark-haired boy looked up at his old friend, feeling something flutter in his chest as he listened to Hagrid's bumbling speech. Maybe he was just hoping there might be even _one_ person who wouldn't rake him over the coals if it turned out he didn't entirely hate spending time with a certain Slytherin, even if that same Slytherin _had_ been a little shit to Harry and all his friends for years. Especially since it turned out that he actually sort of missed doing so.

"Oh, hell, Harry, I don' really know where I'm goin' with all this!" Hagrid exclaimed, throwing out his large hands the size of pot lids. "All I mean ter say is that yeh—yeh were happy tha' night. Out there flyin' with Malfoy. Even _I_ could see that." He laughed uncomfortably at himself, tugging one hand through his huge bushy beard. "And I can't pretend I understan' why yeh'd want ter hang out with Malfoy more'n Hermione or Ron—but...well, yeh haven't looked very happy once when I've seen yeh since tha' night." Hagrid was looking down at him earnestly, and Harry's heart seemed to knock against his ribs. "Don't reckon I've seen yeh lookin' properly happy any other time this whole year, really. And yer a good lad, Harry. A lot of bad's happened to yeh in yer life, but yeh should be happy." A meaty hand landed on Harry's shoulder, nearly driving him to his knees. "I jus' want yeh to be happy, Harry. You understan' wha' I'm sayin' to yeh?"

Harry swallowed. "But come on, Hagrid. It's Malfoy. Surely not with Malfoy, right?"

"Wouldn't be my firs' pick, I can assure you," Hagrid agreed at once in a dry tone, and the two of them shared a tentative smile. "But—well, yeh may no' have noticed this about me, Harry, but some folks question my tastes as well. Don't seem to see the appeal in blast-ended skrewts or the like." Hagrid's eyes twinkled with knowing humor, and this time they both gave into a genuine grin. "Sometimes yeh jus' have to decide wha's right for yerself, Harry, and hang what anyone else thinks."

The Gryffindor impulsively threw his arms around Hagrid and, as much as he had grown since he'd first met the man as an underfed little eleven-year-old, he still came barely up to Hagrid's chest, and there was no way his arms could reach all the way around his friend. But Hagrid picked up the slack and squeezed Harry until his spine popped, leaking a few large tears over the boy's head and shoulders. Harry realized that the last time (and probably the only time) he had hugged his friend like this had been three and a half years ago, when the half-giant had been released from his tenure at Azkaban. He held onto Hagrid even more tightly, relieved to have at least one person in his life who didn't seem at all interested in judging him or his decisions, as long as he simply remained their friend.

* * *

HARRY FELT MORE BALANCED THAN he had in days as he hopped down the stairs from Gryffindor Tower. He'd been serious when he'd promised to do better with his housemates, and so he'd gone to tell his friends that he'd be absent the rest of the evening, at least until after his meeting with Flitwick. But he wasn't going to let his new Gryffindor resolve keep him from seeing Malfoy if he wanted to. Not that that was why he was headed to the dungeons. His official excuse was that he was only seeking out Malfoy to get his glasses back.

He hurried down their stretch of unused dungeons, then slowed to a measured, smooth walk in case Draco might be watching through the charmed walls. And then he tripped over his own feet anyway and ended up nearly ripping down the tapestry that hid the door as he tried to keep himself from smashing his face into the stone floor. Flushing red, he eased the heavy door open, and it was a momentary relief to realize that Malfoy wasn't even in the room to have witnessed his flailing. But once the embarrassment faded, Harry was only left with a faint disappointment. It had been more than a week, but somehow he'd assumed he would still find Malfoy sitting in that same window where he'd always seemed to be. For a moment, he remembered Malfoy's cold attitude toward him in class and wondered if the Slytherin might have stopped coming to this room at all. But then he spotted his own glasses, sitting on the window sill behind the window seat where Malfoy was normally perched.

Harry smiled to himself, since no one was there to see it, and went to sit in the blond's spot. He could feel the cold seeping into him from the heavy stone pressed against his back and quickly transfigured his outer cloak into a thick fleece blanket. It was of course garishly red and gold. He burrowed into his new blanket and decided he would wait for as long as he could, in case Malfoy came by before his meeting. It would only be a hassle to go all the way back up to the tower once, when he would have to traipse back across the castle in less than an hour anyway to get to the Charm's classroom for his evening lesson.

It was warm within the thick blanket, and his blinks had started stretching longer and longer by the time Malfoy swept into the room and drew up short, surprised to find Harry there. But he didn't allow it to stop him for long. Draco dropped his bag on the floor and strode quickly across the floor, shoving Harry to one side as he clambered onto the window bench beside the Gryffindor. He gave the blanket a sharp tug, allowing a draft of cold air in to chill Harry, and wrapped it over his own shoulder with a happy little exclamation of, "Warmth at last! Bloody dungeons and their utter lack of heating charms."

Harry yelped when he felt one of Malfoy's cold hands brush against him, and he tried to wrestle more of the blanket back over to his side as he said, "Jesus, Malfoy, your hands are like ice!"

The Slytherin was flexing his fingers, trying to get some circulation back into them. "No shit. Good job pointing out the obvious there as usual, scarhead."

Once Malfoy was feeling slightly thawed, he smirked, and Harry felt the fingers that were pressed against his leg twitch, a fraction of a second before the blanket changed into an emerald green motif, with silver threads picking out great swirls and leaves. Harry snorted and said, "Oh no, you don't." Concentrating on what he wanted to see, Harry took his cue from Draco and tried a similar motion—like plucking a string. He only succeeded in turning the blanket into a riotous clash of green and red.

The Slytherin pulled a disgusted face. "Ugh, Potter. Those two colors should never mix."

"They're the colors of Christmas!" Harry protested.

"They're hideous together is what they are," the blond sniffed in disdain. "No business at all mixing with one another." Harry wondered if Draco meant more than just the blanket, but he didn't say anything as Malfoy changed the theme again to green and silver. He only subtly twisted his own fingers to make all the silver needlework change to a burnished gold thread. Draco examined the metallic curlicues and vines with narrow suspicion before he admitted, "Fine. It might even look better with the gold." For a moment, Harry felt bizarrely as if he'd won some sort of argument, and they both fell into silence.

Draco spotted the glasses still sitting on the window sill behind them. He tutted at Harry and said, "You really shouldn't go around without your glasses, Potter. Not such an effective symbol if people can't recognize you by your trademark lack of style."

"Says the git who has kept them from me in the first place," Harry snorted. Neither of them seemed inclined to mention that it had been more than a week since they last spoke, so Harry lifted one hand out of the warm blanket to push up his fringe and reveal the famous scar. "Besides, glasses or no, it's not like I'm going to escape recognition." He was shocked when Malfoy pulled out one of his own slender hands to run his fingers over the scar—partly because the icy cold of those tapered fingers and largely because it was so unusual for anyone to dare touch him there.

Harry sounded a bit breathless when he asked, "Why are your hands so damn cold, Malfoy?"

The blond replied with a single meaningless word: "Raynaud's."

" _What?_ " Harry asked stupidly, a flush beginning to creep up his cheeks when Malfoy leveled a look at him which assured him he really had sounded as stupid as he thought he might have.

Draco gave a wolfish smile as he watched the Gryffindor grow flustered. "Raynaud's syndrome. Poor circulation, you ignorant cretin. Which probably didn't help things when a certain wanker and his minions tried to murder me with Stunning curses." The blond's white fingers were still running over the scar, tracing the slight ridges above Harry's furrowed brow.

Draco could feel Harry's eyelashes brush against his skin as the boy nervously blinked and said, "I don't think anyone's ever touched my scar before." Draco's hand stilled, and he could tell Harry was watching him, though he kept his own eyes trained on the red lightening-bolt scar, safely above the boy's green eyes.

He brushed a bit more of Harry's shockingly black hair away from the scar and seemed to be examining it closely. "Really? I guess I assumed the Gryffindors would all rub your scar for good luck before matches or something equally stupid." Harry could feel faint puffs of Malfoy's breath on his face as the blond spoke and noticed how close the other boy was.

Harry wasn't touched very often. He wasn't sure if it was some sort of need for distance that he projected, after a childhood of being locked alone in the dark without human contact, or if it was just his larger-than-life Boy-Who-Lived persona, but few people dared touch him. Out of all his housemates, and most the people at the school, only Ron and Hermione never seemed to hesitate or hold back. And even they only touched him rarely these days, normally as some kind of restrain to keep him from running away from what they had to say.

Malfoy, however, imposed himself on Harry all the time. He shoved the Gryffindor around, smacked him about the head when he thought he was being stupid, flew close enough to constantly knock shoulders and legs, was constantly invading his personal space to sneer and smirk and tease. He pushed and he pulled, messing up Harry's hair or crawling under his blanket whenever it suited the blond's fancy. And now he was touching Harry as no one else had ever dared, skin to skin, running his fingers along that infamous scar that made Harry who he was.

Draco reached around Harry and picked up the neglected pair of glasses. He carefully slipped them back onto the boy, who winced to protect his eyes from any accidental (or, seeing as it was Malfoy, purposeful) jabbing. His bright eyes popped open when he felt the glasses slide back into place, the slight weight settling familiarly on the bridge of his nose. He cancelled the charm that was now overcorrecting his vision with a stray thought and held himself perfectly still as Draco continued with his ministrations.

The blond brushed Harry's heavy black hair back into place—arranging it with more care than Harry himself probably ever had—and made sure to hide the scar, as Harry was wont to. He smiled in his usual cutting way, but somehow it didn't seem like a very pleased smile to Harry, and declared, "There's Saint Potter again."

The Gryffindor swallowed hard. He'd spent nearly the whole week listening to the people around him try to convince him that Malfoy was not trustworthy and that Harry should stay away from the Slytherin. But then he heard Hagrid's voice again, telling him that morning, "Can't say I blame yeh, Harry. I've got a fondness for dang'rous beasts myself. An' I guess they don' come much more dang'rous than a Malfoy. Yeh can't really help who and what yeh love—don't I know it."

Harry certainly didn't love Malfoy—not like he loved Hermione and Ron—but he did like whatever _this_ was. He liked that Malfoy didn't seem to expect anything from him. He liked being able to say whatever he wanted to say, with no filter, and not having to worry that he might upset or offend someone. The worse Malfoy would do was take the piss out of him, and Harry was perfectly free to hurl insults right back at the blond. They could snipe at each other and be nasty to one another and—and maybe sometimes they could fight over a shared blanket or spend a night flying together under the cloak of night. And maybe that would be all right.

The Slytherin was incredibly likely to betray him someday, but Harry couldn't help himself from asking, "Couldn't I just be Harry?"

Draco looked at the other boy from the close distance between them and repeated, "Just Harry?" He swallowed his uneasy feeling and let his hand fall from that dark hair as he shook his own head. "The world needs Saint Potter. Out there, they'll never let you forget that you're the Boy Who Lived." His mouth twisted on familiar nickname, though, and he shrugged, his eyes cutting away to sweep across the dusty room in a forgotten corner of the castle's dungeons. "But maybe. In here, where no one else can see? Maybe you could be."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 06**

DRACO WAS FEELING GUILTY. OR at least he thought he might be feeling guilty. It wasn't a very familiar emotion for the Slytherin, so he couldn't be too sure. He sat in one of the high-backed uncomfortable chairs that were littered his house's damp common room, a book open on his lap, and pondered the situation with Potter.

Using the Boy Who Lived had seemed like no problem when he'd plotted everything out that summer—but of course that was the one important detail that he hadn't factored in correctly. His plans had been centered on using _the Boy Who Lived_ : the infamous knob that Draco—like everyone in the Wizarding world—thought he knew all about. Hell, Draco had spent the last half of his life consciously trying to inflict pain on _that_ boy in every way he could think up.

But the problem was that now Draco was actually getting to know Potter—no, _Harry_. He'd begun to realize there was a real person behind that earnest, invincible, whiter-than-snow persona and (here was the scary part) he quite liked that person for some damned reason. It turned out that Harry really _was_ brave and heroic and good, and he was also snarky, sneaky, and wickedly funny from time to time. And while he needed the fool Gryffindor to trust him for the sake of his plans, Draco knew that wasn't the only reason he found himself in that dungeon room day after day, on the odd chance that someone might join him there.

In the end, he would end up betraying Harry (and even if he _did_ have a good reason for doing so, he didn't imagine Harry would see it quite the same way), and suddenly that didn't seem funny like it had over the summer. Instead it left him with a nauseating lump in his gut. And his night only seemed doomed to get worse because when Draco looked up, he saw Blaise Zabini coming his way, trailing a small crowd of lackeys behind him. Malfoy sat straighter in his dark mahogany chair, not that he'd ever allowed his posture to slip.

Blaise let one of his flunkies take the first shot, and so it was a snotty little fourth-year girl who sneered at Draco, "Surprised to see you around here, Malfoy. You haven't been spending much time with your house. Decided to crawl back to Slytherin from wherever you've been hiding?"

Draco stared coldly back at the curly-haired girl until she broke first and looked away, her face twisted with dislike. In his head, Draco tried to remind himself once again that the best way to make it look like all his house had turned on him was to actually let all his house turn on him. Some, like Zabini, had needed no encouragement. But even if he knew that it was critical to his act to make himself look vulnerable, it wasn't any easier for Draco to go against every survival instinct that was screaming at him to put Zabini back in his place before his own grip on power could slip any further. Draco was confident he could best Zabini in a duel if it came to that. But it couldn't come to that. He had to willingly make himself a target—a risky business at the best of times, but especially so with a group like his housemates.

He ignored the girl and spoke directly to Blaise, the real voice behind all this. "Hiding? Some of us call it 'studying.' It's obviously lost on you, Zabini, but this _is_ a school. Try to learn something." His lips wanted to curl into a smirk, but he only let the slightest hint of it show. "Otherwise I might have to teach you a lesson."

His challenger smiled cruelly, as much his trademark as Malfoy's icy control, and tossed back his wine-colored hair. "Oh, Draco. Don't even bother trying with the threats. You know that you don't have any power here. You don't have any power anywhere now, least of all in the new order that's rising."

Draco had bristled at the uninvited use of his first name, but any indignation was quickly swallowed by the blind panic that he didn't dare betray to the crowd surrounding him. _So this is it, then._

"We aren't going to listen to your orders or whims anymore. You're out, _Draco_. You're not welcome in Slytherin anymore."

Draco continued his frozen glare, knowing perfectly well that it made his silvery eyes look deader than the heart of winter. It was a look he'd learned from his father. You could lose yourself in eyes like that, and it wasn't a pleasant trip.

He asked in a controlled voice, "What, is this your idea of a coup d'état, _Blaise_?" He refused to show any sign of the nausea that was clawing at his stomach, the bile that he could feel fighting up his throat.

Blaise's smile grew wider. "No, Draco, this is a coup de grâce. We're just putting you out of your misery—there's nothing left of you to even be worth overthrowing."

Only his eyes moved as Draco looked around the common room. Many of the youngest students had evacuated to their dorm rooms as soon as they'd seen Blaise coming. Most of those closer to his own age had stayed, not willing to miss a moment of the drama, even if they attempted to look uninvolved. He saw the students who were so completely taken in by Blaise and the illusion of power that he was projecting, and he also saw Pansy ready to jump in and defend Draco if he asked it. Draco shook his head slightly at her, not wanting her involved. He didn't need to her angrier than she would already be once she found out he'd planned for all this to happen and had been lying to her all along. She was going to be after his blood, even without any extra grievances.

So it was with polished grace that Draco acquiesced, as his mother would have expected. He rose to his feet easily and gave a slight incline of his head, a ghost of a smile on his face as he strode to the door with his book tucked under one arm. There he turned, taking in one last cursory glance of the eerie common room under the lake which had been his domain for so long. His eyes pinned Blaise from across the room, and he allowed a thread of amusement into his voice as he told his former roommate: "Good luck, Zabini. I do wonder how long it will be before some new upstart comes along to take _your_ place."

Blaise tried to act like the comment rolled off him, but Draco could tell that his cold assurance had gotten to the other boy, who was probably already reviewing his competition in his head. He wanted to smirk, but it would ruin the perfect image he had now. Zabini would never be as controlled as he was, and so he would never be able to control the Slytherins as Draco had. Pulling that self-possession around him, Malfoy strode out of Slytherin house like a conquering lord.

He made it out the door and a couple yards down the dark corridor before he fell to his knees, feeling a sudden need to hyperventilate. He frantically told himself again and again that everything had gone according to plan, but it didn't work, and the thought was soon replaced by his wondering just _how the hell_ this had ever seemed like a good plan. He clutched his fist into the cloth over his heart, trying to will himself to stay calm.

_Is it really worth it? Nothing's going to be the same after this—there'll be no going back. Even if I don't fail, I'll have lost everything._

_No. Not everything. At least I'll be alive._

He couldn't even go back to his dorm room to get his things after an exit like that. He wasn't sure how far Zabini would go on his threats that Draco was no longer welcome, but the boy could, as the current ruling power in the house, make life miserable for him. Draco himself had done it to enough people to remember. And Snape certainly wasn't going to lift a finger if Draco got jumped in the common room or hexed six ways from Sunday.

Forcing himself to stagger up to his feet again, he shook his head as he tried to push down his panic. _I had no choice._ And now he had no place to go in the castle. Perhaps the Hospital Wing, if he faked some ailment? Or simply bunk down in an unused classroom, sleeping on the floor?

Then it came to him, completely obvious, and Draco could only blame his panic for why he hadn't thought of it at once. The dungeon room that Potter had warded. No one else knew about it, and no one else could get in even if they found out about it. It was perfect. That was where he could go.

* * *

THE THOUGHT OF HIS OWN private haven kept Draco going as he hurried out of one stretch of dungeons and then followed the twisting paths to the different, far-less-travelled branch that only he and Potter seemed to bother with. When he arrived at the room, it occurred to him that Harry might even be inside, where he could then be prevailed upon to feel sorry for Draco or possibly even convinced to do something nasty to Zabini. Potter and his cronies had been quite willing to prank Slytherins in the past, after all. The thought brought the first smile back to Draco's face that night, and he threw the tapestry back to burst into the room.

The charmed windows showed a dark night sky, and the room was all silent shadows, none of the candles lit in their sconces. There was no else there. Draco glanced at his wristwatch and realized Potter probably was at one of his mysterious meetings. Of course he wouldn't be here. _Which is good. This gives me the time to figure out my next steps before I have to face him again. All for the better._

With a wave of his wand, he set all the sconces alight and looked around the room with a critical eye. Quite a few of his textbooks were here, along with scattered rolls of parchment and a few quills, since he'd been doing almost all his studying in this room for the past several weeks. That would help, since he didn't know when he would be able to get his school bag back, along with the rest of his things. On his long walk, he'd already considered and rejected the idea of simply summoning them with an Accio. They would have to go crashing through the Slytherin common room before they might whiz through half the school, and Draco didn't doubt that one of the quicker Slytherins would manage to spell some of them down as they went by, either to hold his things hostage or simply to paw through them hoping for secrets. No, he'd have to figure out another way to get his things. He could probably still get Vince or Greg to bring them to him, if it came to that. They were generally too thick for politics.

So he had some of his school things, with no bag to put them in. He had the clothes on his back, but nothing to change into for the next day or sleep in that night. And he had nothing to sleep _on_ that night, except for dusty stone flags. Time to get to work.

Another few sweeps of his wand and some scouring charms, and he managed to banish all the dust and cobwebs that had still been lurking in the far corners of the room, where neither he nor Potter had ever bothered to clean. He tugged out the old tables that had been crowded up against the back wall, which all seemed to be broken in some way or another. This room had probably only served as a banishing closet for damaged furniture for years before it had been forgotten. Gesturing one of the tables to the front, Draco frowned at the thing uncertainly. Transfiguration wasn't something he particularly excelled at. He did very well in his classes, because he made sure he did very well in all his classes. It didn't take genius to simply follow McGonagall's instructions. But it did take some stroke of genius to modify transfigurations away from what they were intended to do—and he certainly didn't know any that would conveniently turn an old table into a bed.

Searching his memory for similar transformations, he managed to make the table sturdier and somewhat lower to the ground. It was a start. Several more minutes (and a few curses) later, he even managed to make it wider, more like the shape of a bed. And then he tried a whole lot of things that _didn't_ work to make it any softer than a table, until he accidentally made the whole thing so soft that the legs folded and the top of the table sagged inward, and the whole thing fell to the ground with a soft _fwump_ , looking for all the world like a pile of melted toffee.

"Fuck, fuck, _fuck!_ "

He Banished the disaster with a sharp wave of his wand. There were still several more tables left for experimenting on, he tried to reassure himself, as he tugged another forward to try again. After three more failures, though, he finally forced himself to put his wand away and admit defeat. He looked to his watch again. The library would be closed by now, so he couldn't even go search for some book of useful transfigurations, because he'd wasted too much being a complete idiot with the tables. He cursed again.

Draco sank down to the ground, his back to the wall behind him, and put his head in his hands. The cold seeped straight through the stone and into his bones, but he didn't dare transfigure his robe into anything thicker when it was the only one he had. Sighing, he resorted to a localized warming charm—which helped, even if it would wear off at some point during the night.

The room was silent, and for the first time since he'd started using it, that fact wasn't a relief. It was nearly ten now, and Potter had never shown up here after one of his meetings, only ever before them. It was going to be Draco on his own in this room until the morning came, and then every day after that, for however long this ruse took or until he was caught out and... Expelled? Locked away? Killed?

He drew his robes closer around him, despairing over how he would ever fall asleep against the hard wall. Though he knew he could. There had been nights in worse conditions than this, when his mother had thought he needed to be punished, though it didn't bear thinking about. Perhaps he should go up to the prefects' bathroom and at least shower, now that it was so late no one else was likely to be there. Huddling into his warming charm, he thought about hiking all the way up to the fourth floor just for a hurried shower before anyone else might spot him. Then he thought of something better.

 _Potter once dared bang on the Slytherin common room to call me out._ A reckless idea began to take shape in his head. _Perhaps it's time I returned the favor._

* * *

IT WAS A LONG WALK up to the seventh floor and the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, but somehow all of Draco's weariness had evaporated. He wasn't sure what he expected to happen, but at least it was likely to be outrageous and possibly allow him to blow off some steam by picking fights with Gryffindors. If he were lucky, maybe he could start playing to Harry's sympathies with the sob story of how he'd been driven out of his own house. Even if he weren't so lucky, he could probably annoy the hell out of a Weasley or two.

As a Slytherin, he of course made it his business to know where all the other houses had their entrances. It had always been thought that Slytherin was the best hidden of all the houses, thanks to the cunning and distrust of its inhabitants. But then Harry had walked up and banged on the door one night, so that image might be a bit tarnished now.

He came up to a truly hideous portrait of a heavily overweight woman, squeezed into a pink satin dress that looked like a sausage casing, and Draco put on his most charming smile, one that very few got to see but which had always gotten him what he wanted in the past. Batting his silvery eyes at the woman in the painting, not aware that they still looked far too calculating to be innocent, he said, "Excuse me, but I'm looking for Harry Potter. Do you know if he's in?"

The woman just frowned down at him imperiously and asked, "Password?"

Draco turned his smile slightly apologetic. "Oh, I'm sorry. Harry didn't mention anything about a password." He offered a cheeky wink. "Must've slipped his mind."

He could see the Fat Lady about to scold him for being so saucy when he heard a familiar voice behind him say, "Malfoy, that was the most frightening thing I've ever seen you do. Did you really just _wink_ at the Fat Lady?" Something seemed to bloom in his chest when he heard that disbelieving tone, something like warm anticipation, because this was exactly what he'd come here for.

The blonde turned to find Harry and that idiot Weasel friend of his staring at him. Apparently they hadn't been impressed with his act as a coquet. Then he noticed that their arms were full of food and candy, and his old get-the-Gryffindors-into-trouble habit sprang back to life as he said accusingly, "You've been nicking food from the kitchens!"

Before Harry could try to deny it, a familiar withered figure came racing up the hall, screeching, "Mr. Harry Potter, sir! You is forgetting your favorite eclairs!" Draco could just make out a pair of large, green bat ears behind a platter stacked over a foot high with the pastries.

"Dobby?!" he exclaimed disbelievingly. He hadn't seen the house elf since he'd been freed by Potter three years ago. It had been one of his father's favorite things to complain about that summer.

The awkward creature nearly dropped his platter in shock and peeked over the mound of sweets to squeak, "Master Malfoy!" He tried to bow but ended up with a face full of frosting, and Draco knelt down to the take the tray off the little figure. He looked curiously at the elf. Just when he'd been despairing how things would never again be as they'd once been, here was a figure from his past appearing in the most unlikely place imaginable. _The gods must be laughing at me._

Dobby was mopping his face on his shrunken jumper, which looked oddly like something the Weasley brats would wear. He sniffled and said, "Master Malfoy, Dobby cannot believe he is seeing you at last! Dobby has been working here, for Dumbly-dore, since he is leaving his masters. Oh, how is the mistress?"

_How can I use this to my advantage?_

Draco replied in a slightly dazed voice, "Mother is just fine, Dobby. She still has Nobby and Trixy to take care of her."

Harry let out a whistle and told him, "Ooh, don't ever let Hermione know you still have house elves, Malfoy. You'll never hear the end of it."

The Weasel went from from staring at Draco to staring at Harry, and his face was beginning to redden. Draco knew that look: it meant someone was going to belching up slugs soon, and he had no intention of letting it be him. He fingered the wand in his robe pocket.

Not seeming to notice his friend's mounting anger, though, Harry asked Draco, "What're you doing here?"

Ron crushed some of the food in his arms as he convulsed in anger, and he bit out, "What does it look like! He's here to sneak into our dorms to try and find out all our secrets!"

Harry turned on Ron with a bemused expression. "Um, Ron, I think that's a bit of the pot calling the cauldron black, don't you? You do remember the Polyjuice incident, right?" Draco had no idea what they were talking about, but he was beginning to get suspicious again about how Harry had known the location of the Slytherin dorms.

"But—but—" Ron spluttered, indignant, "that was different! We weren't evil gits out looking for our enemies' secrets! Or at least we weren't evil gits!" Draco was getting _very_ suspicious now.

Harry turned back to Draco, his green eyes searching the Slytherin's face for a moment before he frowned. "Let's get all this inside first. I think I need to talk to Malfoy for a minute."

Dobby sped off again, saying something about shirking his duties and promising to visit both Harry and Draco soon, which left Draco holding the tray of pastries and unsure what to do with it. Harry shrugged and told the Fat Lady "Phoenix ashes," which was evidently the password because the portrait swung open without any further complaints to reveal the Gryffindor common room.

Draco could hear Ron making apoplectic noises and Harry telling him, "Oh, you're a prefect, Ron. You can change the password as soon as we leave." Draco was too busy staring at the Gryffindors behind the portrait to pay the two in front of him much note, though. He had never been in any of the other house's common rooms before and was taken aback by how different the room seemed from Slytherin's common room.

All the décor was done up in gaudy red and gold, no surprise there, and there were two large fireplaces, burning merrily at opposite ends of the room. Even at the late hour, children were up playing chess and Exploding Snap at the small round tables, reading in one of the threadbare but comfortably overstuffed armchairs, or simply lazing about talking and laughing. For some reason that Draco couldn't grasp, one second-year boy had been turned into a giant canary, and all his friends and many of the uppers were laughing at him as he molted. Many of the students turned at Potter's entrance, and there were catcalls and cheers all around for Harry's usual obtaining of sweets, though no one knew how he did it. Then a few of them spotted Draco.

Those closest to the door fell silent a moment before they started muttering, and more people turned to see what the cause was. Draco growled at a few second years who were staring up at him in horror. He was pleased when they physically jumped, but less pleased when Harry kicked him in the shin.

"Behave yourself!" the Gryffindor hissed under his breath, then he said more loudly, "Well, Malfoy—if you're going to be helpful, set that tray down, would you."

That earned him a murderous glare before Draco looked about the room in disdain. "I've no intention of being 'helpful' if it means wallowing into that lion's den. You expect me to set a foot in there? That gaudy monstrosity you call a common room? You must be dreaming, Potter." Surely many of Potter's housemates thought they were dreaming when they saw Harry snort at the Slytherin's dramatics. Harry and Ron walked through the portrait and moved to set down their armfuls of candy, butterbeer, and snacks, while Draco looked around critically.

He barked at the second years he had already frightened, "You! Sproglets! Take the sweets if you want them, you little ingrates." Shaking from head to toe, the two came forward and took the large tray from Draco, balancing it between them. Harry looked back at Draco, who jerked his head to side, indicating the corridor behind him.

The dark-haired Gryffindor nodded and said loud enough for those around him to hear, "Well, I've got to go discuss a project with Malfoy. But don't wait for me—help yourselves." Then he stepped back out through the portrait hole to rejoin Draco, leaving a wake of whispered gossip behind him as the portrait swung shut again.

Once they were alone in the hall, Draco found himself under the close scrutiny of the woman in the pink dress. "A Slytherin, are you?" she sniffed, looking him over.

When he nodded, she gazed at he and Harry standing there side by side. Then the painted woman thawed at last. "Well, imagine that. A Gryffindor and a Slytherin. It's been years since I've seen such a pairing. Sad, really, since Gryffindor and Salazar were the closest of friends, of course." She smiled down at him like a benevolent aunt, "Sorry I was so rude to you earlier, dear. I thought you were trying to sneak into the dorms. You just don't see Gryffindors and Slytherins being friends these days."

" _Friends?"_ he repeated, his voice cracking on the word in way no Malfoy's voice should ever do. "That's not—we aren't—we're not _friends_." Harry began dragging Draco down the corridor away from his house, lifting one hand in farewell to the portrait. "Potter, that presumptuous smear of paint thinks we're _friends,_ " Draco raged, even more scandalized because the other boy wasn't acting bothered in the least.

"Well then, what are we?" the Gryffindor asked, cocking an eyebrow and looking as if he might be trying not to laugh at Draco.

"Well, it's certainly not _friends!"_ he insisted.

Something flickered across Harry's face for a moment, but his voice remained mild as he kept pulling Draco along by the arm. "Are we enemies?"

Draco planted his feet and shook Harry's hand off of him. "No. But that doesn't mean—we're not—well, we know what we are!"

"Do we really?" Harry asked wryly, stopping as well and crossing his arms over his chest. "Doesn't seem we do, since I'm asking and since you don't seem able to answer."

With one last glare, Draco threw himself against the wall, letting it hold up his weight while he scowled. "You know, I've been having a very bad night. If you _were_ my friend, maybe you'd cut me some damn slack."

"Good thing we're not friends then," Harry pointed out with a devilish glint in his eyes.

"You really are _such_ a bastard, Potter," Draco said, though he couldn't help grinning as he said it.

The Gryffindor settled beside him, adopting a similar pose as they leaned side-by-side against the wall of some empty corridor. "So. Bad night, huh? So bad you were desperate enough to run all the way to Gryffindor Tower?"

Draco glanced to the side, but Harry was just looking at him curiously—and perhaps with a hint of concern. That was good. Very good. Potter didn't seem bothered at all that he'd come to seek him out, maybe even needing his help with something. He decided to jump in with both feet, since it would soon be clear to anyone with two eyes that something had changed among the Slytherins.

"I've officially been thrown out of Slytherin house," Draco told the other boy. "Ejected. Overthrown. _Dethroned_ , if you will."

Harry was staring at him as Draco tried to make light of the situation. Maybe breaking down crying or something would work better on a Gryffindor with a hero complex, but Draco couldn't. He couldn't show anything close to how shaken he really was without risking losing his grip on his self-control. But he could still hide behind a sneer. "You see, Blaise Zabini—mangy little power-grabbing shit that he is—decided that he was sick of having people listen to me. I mean, I am right _all the time_ , so that must be hard to accept. Plus I'm tremendously better looking than him. But I don't quite have the same clout in Slytherin house as I once did, what with...all that's happened."

Neither boy needed to have it said aloud: they were both aware of Lucius Malfoy's position and how it affected his son. "He kicked me out," Malfoy continued, "told me I wasn't welcome in Slytherin anymore. So I guess, er, I'm going to be finding another place to sleep tonight. And eventually I'll need a change of clothes. And maybe a new life."

Harry didn't say anything at once, and Draco wondered if maybe he hadn't taken things too far too fast after all. They'd barely made it past throwing hexes at each other every time they met. Now they only sometimes threw punches. Maybe this was asking too much even of Saint Potter. Or maybe he still was the self-righteous twat that Draco had always assumed he was, and he would tell Draco that he was only getting what he deserved. Maybe this entire plan was going to fail because there were too many variables, and he'd let his whole life implode for nothing, and—

"All right, I've got an idea."

Draco's head jerked up, and the panic receded again as he realized that Potter had only been trying to think up solutions. The Gryffindor shoved off the wall and dragged Draco up a staircase and down several halls. Then he left the blond at an intersection of corridors with no explanation, only telling him to stay put before dashing down the right branch and disappearing again. Draco cocked an eyebrow and looked about himself, not sure what was going through Potter's head.

Concentrating on his need for a room for his still-not-a-friend, Harry dashed back and forth in front of the entrance the seven times needed to make the Room of Requirement transform. When the door materialized at last, he pushed it open to find that the infinite hall had now taken on the appearance of a cozy bedchamber decorated lavishly in Slytherin green. Because of course it was. Propping the door open so that he could go fetch Malfoy without it reverting back to whatever its natural state was, he spied several heavy bolts and padlocks on the inside, which would allow the inhabitant of the room to seal it from within. Considering what Harry knew of Slytherins, maybe that was for the best.

Draco had been curious to hear Harry scurrying about down the hall, but he'd stayed put as he had been told until the Gryffindor popped back around the corner and motioned for him to follow. They arrived at a room that Draco recognized as the very same one that Harry's little defense group usually met in. Only now the room looked like a regular dorm room, though a bit more sumptuous and with only one bed.

He shot an accusing look at the dark-haired boy who had followed him inside the room. "You're really going to have to explain some of these things to me sometime, Potter. You have far too many secrets than is decent for a Gryffindor." He poked around the room, which even included an en suite bathroom—he wasn't going to ask about where the plumbing might have come from or where it might flow to—and when he pulled open the doors of the large wardrobe on one wall, it was filled with hanger after hanger of perfectly pressed Slytherin-crested robes. He said sourly to Harry, "Now that's just showing off."

But beneath his sour act, Draco was nearly giddy with relief. Not only had Harry chosen to help him, adding another brick to their growing relationship of trust, but he'd actually managed to provide Draco with a room of his own, completely private, and with a very large and very soft looking bed, which Draco was now eying with appreciation. Toeing off his shoes, he threw himself on top of the satiny duvet and rubbed his face in it. His voice was muffled by the mattress as he groaned, "Never mind, Potter. I don't even want to know how you did it. I just want to sleep and pretend this room is real."

Harry gingerly took a seat next to him, and Draco could feel the bed give under his weight. "You can't use this room forever, though. Someone will catch on."

Draco rolled over on his side, propping himself on an elbow and looking up at Harry. The Gryffindor gave a sheepish grin and admitted, "I also don't know how much you can rely on this room to always be here when you need it. Or what would happen to any of your things if you left them in here. Personally, I wouldn't ever leave anything in here that I wanted to be sure I could get out again."

"I'll try not to be insulted that you don't count me among the things you'd like to be sure make it out of this room again," Draco replied, his brows lifted in mock offense.

Harry smirked and reminded him, "Not friends."

 _Maybe something better_ , Draco thought before he could catch himself. Not that it was possible. Even if mock-fighting with Potter was more entertaining than bossing around Greg and Vince had ever been—never mind keeping up with the vicious one-upmanship that typified his relationship with the more intelligent Slytherins like Pansy and Zabini. It couldn't last. The thought punctured his mood, bringing back more of those complicated feelings that might be guilt or might even be regret. _It was the only way. Stay focused if you want to stay alive._

"I'm pretty sure Zabini can't actually kick you out of your own house, you know," Harry pointed out. "That's not how it works."

"Maybe for Gryffindors," Draco muttered. He rolled onto his back and gestured expansively as he went on, "But, no, you're right. Of course. I can walk straight back into my common room—assuming that they haven't changed the password already—to face off against a dozen of my peers who aren't exactly known for their scruples or their reluctance to use the Dark Arts. What could possibly go wrong?" As Harry glared down at him, he exclaimed, "No wait! I could go to Snape, who is obviously such a big fan of mine these days and will definitely make sure my housemates play nice. Or maybe Dumbledore. He loves me. Keeps hauling me into his office, in fact. Maybe he'll let me sleep there."

"You're such an arse."

"And you like it."

He noticed that Potter that didn't deny that and grinned up at the ceiling. But his smile faded again before even a few moments had ticked by. "Anyway, I can't go back there."

Harry fell back onto the bed as well, letting his eyes fall shut as he sighed. Draco noted absently how well the green suited him, making his skin look even more milky white against the soot of his black hair. Then the Gryffindor opened his eyes again, and they were almost the exact shade as the duvet, the same color as _Avada kedavra_. It was a color made to haunt Draco's dreams.

"Well, I don't suppose complaining to any of the other teachers is going to get you very far," Harry admitted at last. "I'm pretty sure they'll all say to take it up with your head of house and, as you pointed out, Snape is...well, Snape." He sighed, before arriving right back at the same solution that Draco had reached himself, earlier that evening: "The dungeon room?"

Draco nodded at once. "Not exactly homey, though."

Harry ran a hand through his hair and tugged at the roots as he looked about the room they were in, frowning. "You could maybe try to take the furniture from here, though I'm not sure if it really exists outside this room. But if it works, it'd be easier than trying to transfigure anything."

Draco looked at the opulent furnishings and sighed like the tragic hero that he was. "I suppose I could live with such rubbish." He wouldn't mention anything about his own transfiguration attempts.

Harry elbowed him before continuing, "So, assuming you could get all this down there, with a size reduction spell or something, and supposing that it doesn't disappear as soon as you do so...you still can't just live in the dungeons by yourself. I mean..." He searched for an obvious reason and said, "On the most basic level, you need a bathroom."

"No, I don't," Draco said brightly. "See, though you wouldn't know it, prefects have quite a nice, exclusive bathroom available to us."

Harry sniffed in disdain. "What, you mean the one of the fourth floor with the jewel taps? I've seen better. Though," he added thoughtfully, "I was rather fond of that icy white foam, the one you could almost float on top of."

"I _really_ hate you."

Harry snickered and told him, "I'd be careful in there if I were you. That mermaid in the portrait isn't the only one who's watching. Moaning Myrtle also likes to take peeks at the boy prefects."

Draco shook his head, but he was grinning back as he growled, "Do you know every goddamn secret in this castle? I know you're the Golden Boy and all, but really: how the hell do you get all this insider knowledge? You ought to have been a Slytherin."

"So I've been told," Harry muttered. But before Draco could follow up on _that_ curious statement, the other boy went on. "But what about everything else? Where are you going to take your meals? What about classes? What about...Quidditch?"

Draco blanched. He hadn't thought about his place on the Quidditch team. Obviously the plan had to take priority, but Quidditch was one of the few things left in his life that he actually enjoyed. His words came more slowly, confidence shaken. "I can probably work something out with Dobby for meals, now that I know the miserable little creature is around. And pretty much all classes are shared these days anyway—shouldn't matter if my actual housemates exclude me. Plus, Crabbe and Goyle will still do whatever I say. Probably. As for Quidditch..." He swallowed convulsively and said, "We'll see if Slytherin wants to risk its running for the House Cup by cutting the best player they have." He tried to sound more sure than he felt.

Harry looked a little guilty, as if he hadn't meant to pour a gallon of salt water all over Draco's fresh wounds. "Well, I guess it's a sort of plan," the Gryffindor admitted. "A terrible one, but that _is_ what you're known for."

"Bastard."

"And you like it," Harry said, throwing Draco's words right back in face as he sat up on the bed. "I can meet you here tomorrow morning. I have D.A.D.A. at eleven. What about you?"

Draco blinked but responded automatically, "Arithmancy at half eight." _Just like that?_

Harry pulled a face. "Ugh, half eight? Sounds like Hermione. Fine, I'll be here at seven, and we'll try the thing with the furniture."

_He's really going to rearrange his day just like that to help me?_

Draco nodded, barely listening as Harry made his excuses, though he felt the bed move when the Gryffindor pushed himself up.

 _It wasn't enough just to conjure up a magical room for me for tonight, or talk through ideas, he's going to_ keep _trying to help me?_ Draco realized he'd never even had to _ask_ Harry to help. He was simply...doing it. Offering himself up. Rescuing Draco because he appeared to be in need of rescue.

Was this why Potter was treated like such a hero? Or was it the other way around—had he learned to tackle whatever was thrown at him because people kept throwing things at him? Draco had come to him hoping perhaps for some pity or the distraction of a fight or maybe even an armful of blankets. And Potter was offering him... _rescue._

This led to an even more frightening thought: _Is it possible Potter could have saved me from all of it, if I'd only asked him to? That he_ would _have?_ Draco's plotting had all hinged on the belief that no one else could or would ever save him but himself. As he watched the Gryffindor tug his clothes back into place while he strode to the door, Draco wondered for one wild moment if he could actually trust Potter enough to confess everything. The idiot seemed willing to shoulder any burden you threw at him, so why not make things easier on himself?

Could there possibly be a way out of this that Draco himself hadn't seen?

 _No_. Reality hit him like a bucket of cold water. _He wouldn't understand. And even if I could convince him that my way is right, it would ruin everything._

No one could know. Not even Snape—who knew more than most and hated him for it. He would play his cards close to his chest and trust no one. Even if he could believe that Harry might be willing to save him, he couldn't trust that the foolish Gryffindor wouldn't do something to try to 'help' and doom them both instead. It didn't matter how much easier it seemed for one torturous moment to imagine that the Boy Who Lived could save him along with the rest of the Wizarding world, because it wouldn't work that way. It would get one of them killed. Realistically, it would probably get both of them killed. And there was enough chance of that happening already.

_I have to betray him, and it's got to be real. I have no choice._

"I'll have a word with Dobby tonight, too, if I can," Harry said, pausing to pull a silvery length of cloth out of an inner pocket of his robes as he stepped back out into the hall. "And lock the door!" he called after himself as the door was falling shut, not bothering with any farewells.

"Like I need you to tell me," Draco muttered to himself as he shoved himself off the bed and went to turn every one of the heavy locks. Then he levitated the desk and wardrobe against the door for good measure. Looking at the pile of wood and metal that stood between him and the rest of the school, he took a long, deep breath.

_There's no stopping now. Everything's already in motion._

_I had no choice._


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 07**

DRACO WAS UP AND DRESSED by the time Harry arrived the next morning. There was a quiet knock on the door, and Draco eyed the heavy slab of wood suspiciously until he heard Harry's lilting voice muttering something that sounded rather like, "You'd better not have made me wake up this early for nothing, you great ponce." And that had been that.

Once Draco levitated away the blockade of heavy furniture, it took a few minutes to wrestle all the locks and things open before he could finally yank the door back and reveal Harry standing there, clutching the same bundle of silvery cloth he'd been carrying the previous night and dressed in his school-issue charcoal grey slacks and rumpled white button-up, his tie loosely knotted around his neck. His hair was still damp and curling wetly upon his forehead as if he'd come directly from the shower.

Harry hurried in and then stopped abruptly in the center of the room before turning back to the Slytherin. There was something pinched and uneasy in his expression which Draco didn't like the look of. Everything had seemed fine the night before, but perhaps after he'd had more time to think things through, Potter had realized that he shouldn't be helping Draco after all. He really _shouldn't_ be, but Draco still hoped that wasn't what the dark-haired boy was about to say.

"I managed to get a message to Dobby last night," the Gryffindor said, jumping straight into things without explaining whatever was obviously bothering him. "He should meet us down in the dungeons so I can modify the wards to allow him in, too. Assuming I might need to. I'm honestly not sure how a house elf figures in to that spell."

"Sounds...good?" Draco offered. He wondered if perhaps Potter was waiting for him to say thank you or something. That seemed like something Gryffindors probably did. Instead he asked, "Are you being even more awkward than usual, Potter, or did I actually manage to _underestimate_ how socially inept you are?"

That only got him a weak snort of amusement, as Harry stood there twisting his thin silvery cloak in his hands. The action drew Draco's eyes again to the bundle of cloth, which looked somehow familiar, although the Slytherin couldn't think of why. "Is that..."

He trailed off, caught on the edge of recognition. He took a step closer, and Harry looked up at him through thick black lashes, suddenly blurting out, "Malfoy, what are we really?"

Draco stepped back again.

"Didn't we just have this conversation last night?" he quipped, one eyebrow raised. The Gryffindor didn't respond or stop watching him expectantly, so Draco threw out his hands in a frustrated gesture. "I don't know! We're lots of things. We contain multitudes." He shrugged. "I'm not really sure what you expect me to say here."

"Can I trust you?"

It was a struggle not to look like he'd just been punched in the gut, because that was what it felt like. _Brave, stupid Gryffindor._ Of course Harry would come right out and ask it. Draco had been expecting the question sooner than later, and yet it still took him by surprise how hard it was to respond. _If you get this wrong_ , he told himself, _you'll be back at square one. Or worse._ But even he didn't believe that was the only reason he was finding it so hard to come up with a convincing lie. Feeling as though the situation were slipping away from him, Draco spoke with more frustration than he really meant to.

"I don't know," he bit out. "It depends on the question. You can trust me to tell you when I think you're being a total arse about something—which you are being right now, by the way. You can trust that I'd never cheat on exams—because I wouldn't ever need to. You can trust that I'll probably try to cheat at Quidditch if you're stupid enough to let me get away with it." By now he'd crossed his arms defensively over his chest, still dressed in the same clothes as the day before, refreshed the best he could manage with some cleaning charms. "You can trust that I have no intention of poisoning your porridge or smothering you while you sleep, if _that's_ what you're worried about."

None of this seemed to be persuading Harry, but Draco still found himself clinging to half-truths instead of outright lies. What was he going to tell Potter? _Yes, you can trust me. I'm completely on your side now and would never betray your faith in me?_ He didn't think that Harry was actually stupid or gullible enough to believe something like that without any sort of proof. He turned the tables on the Gryffindor instead, not knowing what else to do. His voice took on an accusing tone as he snapped, "Look, you know who I am. And the fact is I've got no one else to go to, but you do whatever the hell you want, Potter. I don't need you if you want out. I'm not going to beg or fall on my knees like one of your grateful little worshipers. If your _conscience_ or whatever doesn't allow you to help me with this, then fine. I can just—"

" _Hey_." Harry's intense voice broke through his rant as the Gryffindor reached out and put one of his hands on Draco's tense arm. "Calm down, Malfoy." Harry's face had finally eased up, and he seemed to be smiling again as he raised a sardonic eyebrow. "You're kind of losing your cool. I'm not sure it's a good look for you."

"I never lose my cool. And also fuck off. I had a very bad night, remember?"

The smile on Potter's face grew, and suddenly things were normal again. "How long are you planning to keep using that as an excuse?" the other boy asked, green eyes sparkling as he waited for Draco's riposte so they could fall back into the comfortable rhythm of their usual sparring.

Draco forced his arms back down to his sides, letting out a slow steady breath since it seemed they'd stepped back from whatever cliff they'd be up on. "Depends," he said. "How long will it work?"

"I think it stopped working the first time you said it," Harry shot back, grinning up at him, and they were still standing barely a foot apart in the middle of the large bedroom. "Honestly, I didn't mean to send you into a tizzy or anything. I just wanted to know if I could trust you with this." Without another word, he held out the Invisibility cloak to Draco, who finally realized what it was once he felt the strange, liquid cloth in his hands.

"Potter, you have an Invisibility cloak?" he gasped. "You spoiled little _bastard_." He held the diaphanous material up to the light appreciatively and breathed in an awed voice, "This explains so much. God, if I were still in control of Slytherin house, I'd make you an honorary member."

Harry smiled wryly at that, imagining that it must have been meant as a compliment. He warned the blond, "But don't take me for a fool, Malfoy. I put any number of tracking spells on that cloak. If you give me any reason to be suspicious or you just piss me off, I can summon it back from you at any time."

Draco stared at him blankly and then said, "You mean you're giving this to me? To use? You're lending a nearly priceless Invisibility cloak to me, Draco Malfoy, your sworn enemy?"

"I thought you said we weren't enemies," Harry threw back, still smirking. "And I definitely think I would've remembered swearing to anything."

It was like the fool wanted to be betrayed. For a few moments, there were no words available to Draco in either of the two languages he was fluent in, but he had to say something before things got too awkward. Mouth tight with strain, he at last managed to mutter, "I knew that Gryffindors were stupid, but this just proves it beyond a doubt."

Harry looked amused and pleased by Draco's shock. "Like I've said," he reiterated, "there're any number of spells and jinxes on there. Don't think you can run away with it. But I figured it might come in handy, if you're going to be sneaking around so much—living in hiding, as it were."

Even for a Gryffindor, lending out an Invisibility cloak wasn't something that Harry could do without expecting some sort of compensation. Draco asked, carefully neutral, "So, what do you want in return?"

Harry's happy expression faded, and he repeated Draco's question to himself. Draco spoke as if to a child, "You don't just do someone a huge favor like this and not expect something in return. So, what do you want, Potter?"

Then the Gryffindor smiled craftily, although Draco thought he had seen an incomprehensible flash of disappointment in those green eyes—but what should he be disappointed about?

"Come on, Dobby's waiting for us. I'll think up something appropriate for payback in time."

They managed to reduce all the furnishings in the room, including the large king-size bed (what else for a Malfoy?) resplendent with a green satin coverlet and dark, velvet hangings, plus the vaguely disturbing wardrobe full of robes that weren't his and a table with two chairs made of matching ebony wood. Once they were all the size of dollhouse furniture, the duo split them up between themselves and stowed them in their pockets before leaving the Room of Requirement. The furniture didn't immediately pop out of existence as soon as they stepped out the door, so they turned their feet towards the dungeons.

Draco wore the Invisibility cloak, since no one would suspect Harry Potter for wandering around the castle at a god-awful hour of the morning, and they trooped down the numerous staircases, hidden paths, and secret corridors that Harry frequented. Many of the portraits seemed quite familiar with the Boy Who Lived and would call out greetings and news as the two passed (one unseen). Draco had resigned himself to no longer being surprised by the unplumbed depths of Harry Potter's secrets, and he accepted it all without comment. Well, maybe just one snarky comment. Or seven.

They made it to the hidden room, and it seemed that the borrowed bedroom was still fully material, if tiny, even after the long trip. Dobby was pacing around in front of the tapestry, absently beating the dust out of it and using his special magic to repair some of the more moth-eaten bits each time he walked past it. He jumped guiltily when he saw the boys but couldn't seem to resist from giving the ancient hanging one last straightening tug.

Harry smiled at the house elf, then asked him whether he'd been able to get into the room on his own. Dobby told them that he hadn't been able to simply pop in as he usually would've done, so it seemed the weird old ward was at least partially effective against house elves as well. "Let me see if I can just adjust things to include you then," Harry said, waving the other two back, "rather than recasting the whole thing." He still wasn't all that sure he could get the cranky old charm to work a second time—it might well have only been dumb luck that he'd pulled it off the once.

Pulling his wand out, Harry could feel the old magic pulsing as soon as he bothered to pay attention to it. These ancient spells were unpredictable and a bit wild still—completely dissimilar to the frozen rigidity of most modern spells, which had been tightened and trimmed so much that they did little to prepare today's casters for handling the older magics that had fallen out of style. The first time Harry had tried a spell like this, he'd almost been overwhelmed by the feeling that he was drowning in a power he couldn't contain. It had been as if Harry himself were just a conduit for something larger than his comprehension, something he could barely rein in with his wand. Now, more familiar with the sensation, he probed through the layers of spellwork and felt them warm up in recognition of his magical signature.

Suddenly he had an idea—which, like most sudden ideas, probably wasn't a very good one. But he was feeling confident because of his exponential improvement in his lessons with Flitwick, and he was still riding the dizzy high that had come from recklessly entrusting his cloak ( _maybe more than just the cloak_ ) to the blond at his shoulder. Harry slid his wand back into his pocket and splayed both hands out in front of himself. From somewhere far off, he distantly heard Draco's sharp question of what exactly he thought he was doing, but Harry was already too deep in the magic to pay note.

Draco looked around apprehensively as he felt the atmosphere grow thicker, the air as heavy on his skin as a blanket. He remembered the violent force of the original spell, and he watched as Harry, completely absorbed in his spellwork, twitched his hands about as if he were pulling apart some large, invisible knot, which was very much what it felt like to the Gryffindor.

Harry grinned when he found the heart of the spell again. He tugged at it just as he had teased apart the rest of the warding, pulling it loose for a moment so he could stretch it around Dobby as well. Once it settled into place, he released the whole thing, realizing too late that every layer he'd unraveled must now snap back into its proper place.

There was a sudden vacuum of power, and Harry felt as if a part of himself was being wrenched out himself into it, huge reserves of his own magic ripped from him so the warding could knit itself back together to form a solid wall. He sagged to his knees, sweat popping out on his forehead as he turned white and swayed, and Draco hurriedly grabbed at him to keep him from going down entirely.

"What the hell, Potter?!" Draco could hear a tremor in his own voice, but he refused to acknowledge it as he shouldered the door open and dragged the other boy into the room with him, Dobby trailing after them and fretting terribly. There was nothing to lay Potter down on but the floor, and Draco shoved a hand in his pocket, finding only a dollhouse-sized wardrobe and table. He made a brief sound of frustration—a sound which no self-respecting Malfoy should ever make, regardless of the situation—and pulled Harry upright. The Gryffindor was offering no resistance, his eyelids drooping and his breath shallow. He seemed to be turning even greyer as the seconds ticked by, rather than recovering.

Taking Harry's weight on one shoulder, Draco plunged his free hand into the pocket of Harry's trousers, feeling about in the empty cloth but turning up no miniaturized bed. He reached across to the other pocket, his wriggling fingers trapped in the confines of the thin cloth against Harry's leg before they managed to snag on something. Catching the delicate little spindles, he pulled a tiny four-poster bed free from Harry's pocket and tossed it away from himself, a harsh gesture guiding it across the room before another made it pop right back to life-size.

Once the bed had sprung back into its regular shape and size, Draco pulled Harry over the last few feet and dumped him atop the giving mattress. His legs felt shaky with something he could only assume was adrenaline. "Dobby, go—go and get a cool compress or something," he ordered, distracted, simply wanting no witnesses around to see the strange weakness that had set his limbs trembling. Harry wasn't moving, though his chest rose and fell as he jerked in rapid little breaths. Did he need to go to the hospital wing? How was Draco going to explain how he'd gotten Harry Potter in such a state? Pulling away his black-rimmed glasses, Draco tipped Gryffindor's head back to see his eyes.

The pupils had contracted to near pinpricks, and as Draco peered into them, he would swear he saw a flash of red. The body sprawled across the bed stiffened for a moment, then those eyes rolled toward Draco, and a smile curled Harry's lips, a smile like Draco had never seen on the other boy: cruel and triumphant. It was there and gone in an instant, as Harry fell limp again, eyes shut and face lax.

"Potter?" Draco asked in a detached voice. "What's wrong with you?" When the pale boy didn't even stir, Draco jogged him by the shoulder. "Answer me, you inconsiderate prick!"

Dobby popped back into the room, the wards no longer any problem, and he held a wet towel out in front of himself as he asked nervously, "Is Harry Potter all right, Master Malfoy? What has happened to him?" Draco didn't know how to answer as he took the compress that Dobby offered, not feeling its chill in his even colder hands.

He ran the cloth over Harry's waxy face, brushing aside the damp hair to wipe over the boy's scarred forehead. He sucked in a breath, though, when he saw that the familiar lightening bolt looked raw and angry, as if the cut were fresh and not fifteen years old. Draco muttered to himself, "What the Devil is going on?"

Draco hadn't been expecting any reply, but the Gryffindor licked his lips, his brow furrowing, and softly muttered, "Voldemort." Draco dropped the damp washcloth.

Living in Malfoy Manor and being part of one of the Darkest families in the Wizarding world, Draco had learned early in life what it was like to be afraid. Others might think that someone in his position and with his money wouldn't possibly have anything to fear, but they would be wrong. He'd only learned how to hide it, particularly in the last few years, knowing that his father and those he served savored fear like any good predators did.

Whatever had gripped him when Harry collapsed had tasted different than the familiar fear of his mother's punishments or his father's disapproval. But the mention of Voldemort—that was an old fear, well-known and worn from the many times the monster had appeared at the manor in the past year and a half. It was familiar enough that he knew how to easily shove it down where it wouldn't show. It was only that instinctual habit that allowed Draco to pull an air of indifference back around himself as he picked up the compress from where it had fallen on his trousers, leaving a wet spot on his leg.

"What are you talking about?" He kept his tone clinical, impersonal. "What just happened, Potter?"

The Gryffindor looked blearily up at him, but he seemed to be regaining his color. "Like I said: Voldemort." The boy reached up to rub his forehead, a pained little groan escaping him. "He can force his way into my mind. And sometimes I can see into his, as well. It doesn't happen so much anymore, but that spell took more out of me than I expected. I wasn't being careful."

Draco's expression didn't change as he said nastily, "Full marks for understatement, Potter." But a new chill of terror was spreading from his heart out to his fingertips, only slightly alleviated by the fact that he hadn't actually _told_ Harry anything when he'd been tempted to the night before.

Harry didn't seem to be measuring his words, and Draco wasn't about to let such an opportunity pass him by, so he pushed with unfeeling bluntness, "Is it because of the way he was resurrected? Is this link because he used your blood?"

Everyone had a rough idea of what had happened in the cemetery that night, thanks to Harry's tell-all interview the previous year. But Draco probably knew much more of the story than regular people who had read the article. The Gryffindor pushed himself up into a sitting position, though he was leaning heavily into Draco to keep himself up. He absently rubbed at his scar, and the resignation in his slumped shoulders left Draco wondering if these sort of attacks were a frequent part of Harry's life.

"No," Harry said at last. "I've always been connected to Voldemort." That black head dipped lower as he said heavily, "But it's only been worse since he got his body back. That's when I really started seeing what he sees, what he does. Feeling what he feels."

Harry sounded choked with horror, and in a locked away part of Draco's mind where he could still feel, he was horrified as well. The other boy scrubbed at his eyes, then sighed. "He's a lot better at getting in my head, though—when he can get past my defenses. I can only hope that he didn't have the chance to get much this time."

The two boys sat silently leaning into each other, as Harry waited for the pain to ebb away and Draco wondered what this would mean for his plans. The two most central players in all his manipulations—each of whom he was telling different lies to—had access to each other's minds. _Great, what else could go wrong?_ He might be able to convince Voldemort that anything he'd told Harry was just a lie to get the boy to trust him, but if Harry learned that Draco was still dealing with the Dark Lord, everything would be lost.

And yet Draco knew he couldn't control what went on in Harry's mind—and he couldn't exactly ask the boy to kindly not go traipsing around in Voldemort's secrets. Not without seeming more than a bit suspicious. "Does this happen...often?" he asked, his voice stripped of any emotion.

Harry snorted. "No, not if I'm not being stupid. This is the first time it's happened since the spring."

Maybe Draco was safe then. If Potter had gone six months or more without poking into the Dark Lord's thoughts, perhaps he would go a few more months.

He looked down at the dark head of the boy propped up against him. He was going to miss his class if he didn't get moving soon. He was going to have no time to prepare himself to face his former housemates. And he needed to panic for a bit about how much more precarious his plan was than he'd already known. But he still didn't move at once.

"I've got a class to get to," he said at last, the factual statement coming out softer than he'd intended.

Harry straightened up, slipping his glasses back onto his nose and clearing his throat. He looked physically recovered, but Draco wasn't so sure about his mental state. Then again, it would be hard to be sure about the mental state of anyone who'd been brined in the Dark Lord's twisted thoughts for years. He probably ought to be amazed that the Gryffindor was as sane as he seemed to be.

The blond glanced back at Dobby, who'd remained silent and unnoticed through the whole crisis, as a good house elf ought to do. The creature was familiar with his former master's moods from their many years together, and he understand the silent demand in that single glance. He nodded, his large bat ears flapping ridiculously with the motion, and said solemnly, "Dobby will take care of Mr. Harry Potter, Master Malfoy, sir." Draco nodded and eased himself away from the slight boy. Harry wove for a minute then held himself straight.

Draco said sharply, with a trace of his usual bite, "Well, Harry, fun though it's been to watch you break down like a complete tit, I've got Arithmancy—which frankly takes precedence over your little drama. I'll be coming back to _my_ room in two hours, and I'll expect you to have cleared out by then."

He swept from the room without even a bag, since his was still in the Slytherin dorms, and Harry watched him go in bemusement. His lips quirked into a small smile, perversely cheered by the normalcy of Malfoy's act. _Oh, do g_ _et a hold of yourself_ , the blond seemed to be signaling to him. _This is hardly a big deal._

"Message received," Harry muttered to himself, as Dobby tried to dab at his face with his clammy cloth.

Compared to the suffocating sympathy he would have gotten from any of the Gryffindors if he'd told them about his experiences in Voldemort's world, it was refreshing to have someone simply tell him to _get over it_. As he allowed Dobby to fuss over him, Harry couldn't help wondering again about this strange relationship. It surely couldn't be healthy. But god help him if he couldn't keep himself from craving even more of it.

* * *

HARRY WALTZED INTO THE POTIONS classroom five hours later, normal as you please. Draco was in his usual spot between Crabbe and Goyle, his two cronies providing a solid wall of flesh around him to protect him from the rest of the Slytherins' antagonism. Harry was similarly flanked by his two lackeys, and the green-eyed boy showed no sign whatsoever that he hadn't had a lie-in and a relaxing morning in the Gryffindor den.

Draco had gone back to his new room one after Arithmancy and found all the furniture restored and neatly arranged. Pansy had made Crabbe and Goyle package up all his things, then she had shrunk them herself, knowing that Draco would be upset—and justifiably so—if the boys' ineptitude caused them to blow up all his possessions instead of shrinking them as any third year ought to be able to do.

She'd slipped him the small bundle and quickly filled him in on the situation as their shared Arithmancy class broke up, letting him know that Blaise had made it clear to all the Slytherins that Malfoy was persona non grata. They'd even changed the password the minute he'd walked out the door. Technically he should still have the power to change it back himself as a prefect, but there was no point waging some war of attrition that he wasn't interested in winning anyway.

Pansy had looked concerned as she pressed his shrunken belongings into his hands, but Draco wasn't a fool enough to believe it was concern for him. She was risking her own tenacious position by helping him out in even this small way. She didn't ask him where he was staying now, knowing that the information would surely cost her more than she wished to pay. Nor did she tell him the new password to the Slytherin dorms. But she wouldn't burn all her bridges until she was certain that Draco didn't have anything up his sleeve. She'd known him since they were children, and she appreciated better than Zabini seemed to that Malfoys excelled at playing a very long and patient game. Draco hadn't missed the calculating glint in her eye as he turned away, and he'd felt very glad once again for Harry's Invisibility cloak, which should help him keep his new quarters a secret for some time.

He hadn't bothered going to the Great Hall for either breakfast or lunch, and he was still debating what to do for dinner. He didn't like letting Zabini and his followers think that they had gotten the better of him and forced him into isolation. But if he sat at the Slytherin table and was dismissed, it would be the final nail on his coffin. He wouldn't ever be allowed back in. But where else could he go? He had terrorized the Hufflepuffs and alienated the Ravenclaws. And the Gryffindors hated him nearly as much as they hated Voldemort. Except for Harry, of course. But did he want to go public with Harry? And was the colossal Gryffindor even willing to be seen in public with him?

Draco was shaken out of his thoughts by Goyle nudging him with a large meaty shoulder. He realized that he was still in Potions and had quite a while before he had to deal with dinner arrangements. But when he looked up, he realized he couldn't avoid dealing with his ex-housemates. He was fairly ringed by hostile Slytherins, and the Gryffindors and the other students were watching curiously.

Zabini stood at the fore of the mangy pack and leaned forward to place his hands on Draco's desk with deliberate care. He hissed in a voice that carried well in the suddenly quiet room, "You really are pathetic, Malfoy. You don't even deserve to wear that Slytherin crest any longer." He smiled and fingered his wand thoughtfully, leveling it at Draco's chest. "Maybe I ought to remove it for you."

He was interrupted by a derisive snort. They all turned to see Harry Potter leaning back in his chair. He studied them with merciless green eyes and said to Draco, "Damn, Malfoy. Even the Slytherins don't want you anymore? I didn't know you could sink any lower than that."

Draco's lip curled up and his tone was just as mocking as he snapped back, "Oh, I could still sink much further. I could be a Gryffindor."

Several of the Slytherins sniggered, before remembering that Malfoy was no longer one of them. Ron seemed ready to launch himself across the room and beat the blond into a bloody pulp, but Harry held him back with a hand on his elbow. "Prefects don't fight," he reminded his friend, which earned him a look of outrage. But before any of them could react further, Snape blew into the room and class began.

* * *

HARRY WAS WITH A LARGE crowd of Gryffindors headed to the Great Hall for dinner when he saw Draco loitering in front of the large doors. He pulled Hermione and Ron back as the rest of the group milled into the dining hall, and Ron asked impatiently what was the matter. He didn't like things getting in between him and the choicest selections for dinner. One gets a little competitive when one grows up in a family of nine.

Harry nodded towards Malfoy, who seemed to have been issuing some orders to Crabbe and Goyle because the two lumbered off after a final nod from the blond. Ron immediately objected, waving his broad hands in front of him. "Oh no. Not Malfoy. Whatever it is, if it involves Malfoy, I don't want a part. Unless, of course, it involves a good beating."

Sighing under his breath, Harry tried to keep his voice neutral as he started, "Look, I know you guys don't like him—"

"Neither do you!" Ron exclaimed, tossing his arms up in exasperation. Harry looked toward Hermione, but support didn't seem forthcoming from her either.

"Right. Of course I don't _like_ him. But the thing is he really doesn't have anyone else. He's been forced out of Slytherin, as you must've noticed, and he's not exactly popular with the other houses..."

Ron gaped at his best friend before asking him seriously, "And how is any of this our concern? Let the little bastard rot. You reap what you sow and all that rubbish."

When Harry failed to agree at once, the redhead stormed off through the double doors, muttering as he went, "I don't believe this."

Hermione was fretting, twisting her hands together as she looked between Harry and the doors Ron had just passed through. But when Harry turned his questioning look on her, she heaved a great sigh and said, "Oh, fine." Harry smiled gratefully at her, and she was glad at least to have caused that rare happy expression.

"Oi, Malfoy!"

The blond glanced in their direction when he heard Harry's call and strolled over as if this were a regular occurrence. He looked down his nose at the two Gryffindors, who were both at least a couple inches shorter than him, and asked, "Now what do _you_ want?"

Harry smiled at the prickly boy's choice of words and said, "Just calling in that favor, Malfoy. You're going to come eat with us."

Draco blinked and asked, "You sure you want to waste your favor on something like this? Granted, you may get lucky and someone might just try to kill me..."

Harry let his smile grow, but he only gestured over his shoulder as he started for the doors, leading the two of them into the Great Hall. Draco hurried to step alongside Harry, never willing to trail after the Boy Who Lived.

As soon as they passed through the doors, Harry glanced towards his own table, but the Gryffindors were already staring his way in horror. They were going to need more neutral ground. He walked over to the Hufflepuff table and asked a few of the kids at the end whether they minded the three sitting there. The younger students hastily made space, in awe of the trio that suddenly descended upon them: Harry Potter, the very Boy Who Lived; Draco Malfoy, the richest and most notoriously evil student at Hogwarts; and Hermione Granger, the prodigious genius who had helped save the school almost as many times as Harry himself. As everyone stared, the odd threesome settled themselves on the Hufflepuff benches and dishes appeared in front of each.

Draco pulled a face as he watched Luna Lovegood and Ginny Weasley stroll over to sit with them minutes later, and he muttered to Harry, "I think I've lost my appetite."

Ginny looked the blond up and down and said acerbically, "Well, no one's forcing you to stay."

Draco smirked right back. "That's where you're wrong, Little Weaselette. Your dear Mr. Potter is forcing me to mingle with you plebes, obviously hoping some of your _goodness_ might rub off. I hope poverty isn't contagious as well."

Ginny's ears were turning red, just as her brother's were wont to do, but before she said anything, Harry smacked Draco on the back of the head.

"I swear. I can't take you anywhere," he grumbled to the boy next to him, and Draco snickered.

Loony Luna gestured with a drumstick dipped in tapioca pudding as she breezily remarked, "You know I've never much liked the separation of houses. It's like people trying to separate jarveys and gnomes."

"But Luna," Hermione said, her eyes following the drumstick, "you do realize that jarveys _eat_ gnomes."

" _Exactly_ ," Luna agreed, satisfied as if she'd just made the winning point in some argument.

Draco stared at the Ravenclaw girl in consternation. He turned a wordless look on Harry, as if the Gryffindor could somehow explain Luna Lovegood. Harry couldn't. "Don't worry," he said as he patted the blond on the shoulder, "You'll survive. And probably just as evil as ever."

The three girls sitting with them all looked baffled by this casual teasing. (Well, no, Luna was too busy blowing bubbles in her pumpkin juice.) But even more surprising was when Draco only responded with a sharp smile before he shoved Harry over, upsetting him from his seat. He leaned over the boy sprawled on the ground and told him, "I'm haunting you for an eternity if you're wrong."

Harry reached up and gripped the edge of the table to pull himself back into his seat, and Draco pushed him back down again. Then he had to bury his face in the crook of his arm as his shoulders heaved with laughter. This time Harry grabbed the back of Draco's robes to haul himself up, causing the Slytherin to choke as the fabric cut into his throat. They elbowed one another, hissing threats mostly too low for anyone else to catch, before they seemed to arrive at some truce and both pointedly turned away from one another, tousled and flushed.

Acting as if Harry didn't exist, Draco turned to Hermione instead. Mudblood though she might be, she could at least carry on an intelligent conversation. He drew her into a discussion of their term project for Arithmancy and left Harry to entertain the other girls. The small group engaged the nearby Hufflepuffs into their conversation, and Harry had his usual cheering effect on all the diners. The students sitting at the other tables watched curiously (or resentfully) the cross-house mixing at Hufflepuff table. Ron was pointedly ignoring all of it, aside from the angry glares he shot at Harry and Hermione every couple minutes from where he was sitting between Seamus and Neville.

Hermione had managed to draft one of the Hufflepuffs from their class into her discussion with Malfoy to help her argue her point—though she had to admit to being surprised when the Slytherin used actual data and theorem to prove his side, instead of resorting to insults as she would have expected. They'd managed to have a fairly civil conversation for the whole hour of dinner, without more than a handful of snide comments. But eventually Hermione glanced at the small-faced watch decorating her wrist, which showed far more than just a regular analogue clock, and she interrupted Harry's conversation with one of the Hufflepuff Quidditch players to remind him, "Harry, it's nearly eight. I think you've got to be going."

He looked at her in mock reproach and sighed, "Yes, _Mother._ " Though the word sounded a bit odd coming from the boy who had never had one.

Draco snorted and piled on, saccharine as candy floss, "Yes, Harry-kins, wouldn't want to be late for one of your precious 'meetings'."

Harry pushed himself off the bench and told Draco, "Bite me."

Draco wasn't used to the Muggle phrase, but it didn't require much explanation. Besides, Harry was smiling, and their bizarre group of dinner-mates were calling out their goodbyes, so he didn't bother responding with anything more than a rude gesture. Harry flashed him one last wink before leaving the Slytherin to fend for himself.

* * *

FOR THE FIRST TIME, HARRY knocked before letting himself into the dungeon room, now that it was more properly Draco's room. He found the blond in his window seat, filling in complicated charts for Astronomy. Having done most the work to set up the room and make it into what it was, Harry felt at home enough to throw himself on the bed and look around in a proprietary manner. There were a number of new knickknacks that hadn't been there this morning, though it was hard to see many details since all the lights were extinguished so that Draco could see the stars. He noticed several Dark or questionable tools and said slyly, "Been patronizing Borgin and Burkes, have you? Looks like you never got that Hand of Glory, though."

Draco glowered briefly at him and then went back to marking up his chart as he asked in a bored tone, "And how was your meeting?"

Harry grinned and stretched out on his back. He toed off his shoes and kicked them off the bed, then pillowed his head with his folded hands as he told Draco, interrupted once by a large yawn, "Oh, it was crap. Got questioned for our little display today. Then the usual lectures and reminders."

Draco wasn't certain who Harry met with every night, though he could guess well enough that the Boy Who Lived met with Dumbledore on a regular basis. He couldn't have guessed that Harry actually met with most the staff members every week.

Harry asked drowsily, "How was the rest of dinner?"

"Unbearable," Draco told him, not bothering to inject any real venom into the words as he carefully checked that he'd marked Mercury in the right quadrant. "Let's never do it again. Did you really come here just to ask how dinner went?"

There was a hum of agreement from the bed, then nothing else. Draco didn't notice that the conversation had died, focused as he was on his work. It was painstaking and took the better part of a half-hour to finish up the chart, which was the last thing he needed to do for the night. As he packed his completed papers in his bag along with his fine self-inking quill, he glanced at his new bed and was almost surprised to realize that Harry was still there, only now deeply asleep. He stacked his textbooks neatly on the table, then walked over to the bed, perching next to Harry and calling softly, "Come on, Potter. It's nearly eleven—time for you to go."

The boy didn't respond, so Malfoy jostled his shoulder. "Come now, Harry, this is the second time today that you're profaning my bed. Granted," he said thoughtfully, "you did provide me with said bed, but it is regardless mine now."

Harry muttered something that sounded rather like, "Go 'way, Aun' P'tunia," and Draco snorted again as the boy rolled away, taking the duvet with him. The blond shucked off his uniform and stepped into a pair of silky black pyjama pants, quickly pulling a long pullover on over his vest. A tooth cleaning charm would have to do at this late hour, since he couldn't possibly be bothered going up to the prefects' bathroom. Within minutes, he was shoving the Gryffindor further toward the middle of the bed, all the time muttering about what an imposing little sod he was.

Draco looked over at his unexpected bedmate in the faint starlight, grimacing at the sight of Harry sleeping in his uniform, complete still with tie. He drew the line at the glasses and reached over to slide them off Harry's face, setting them on the bedside table with a careful little click. Then, shaking his head to himself, he flung one arm over his eyes in the posture he usually slept in and muttered, "Good night, scarhead."

He wasn't sure, but he thought there might've been a soft mumble in reply that sounded rather like "Night, Draco."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, little edits sure have a cascading effect! I've ended up changing the dynamic between Harry and Draco quite a bit here... But I think it hopefully will match better with the second act? Rereading this ancient story after so long, the original draft really felt like act 1 and act 2 should have been two different stories. (Which, mea culpa, was utterly my fault because I pretty much write without a plan, and that's a real sin to commit when writing something serial like a fic.) I hope I can smooth a bit of that out now. Even if I fail at that, though, it's been fun inserting new little snippets of dialogue and scenes in to try to build the relationships up a bit more than they sometimes were the first time around.
> 
> (But it _is_ diverging so much that, even though each chapter still contains all the same beats and events as in the original, I almost feel I ought to repost the old versions as well for those who remember them. Yikes. Let's not commit to that.)


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 08**

HARRY WASN'T SURE WHEN THINGS had begun to change—the touches, the pinches, the mussing of hair, the playful shoves, the _closeness_. But he knew precisely when he'd become aware that there had been a change: when he'd woken in bed with Draco Malfoy.

Harry had been confused as he swam back up through the layers of sleep to consciousness—he didn't even remember falling asleep, let alone how he'd ended up in such an unfamiliar position. When his scattered wits began to return, though, he'd realized that he was laying sprawled across Malfoy, one leg thrown over the other boy's and his body clearly reacting to being pressed so closely against another warm body. With a gasp, he struggled to push himself away, but he only succeeded in getting himself more entangled in the duvet that covered them both.

His graceless thrashing seemed to rouse the blond, and Harry suddenly froze when he found himself staring into silvery grey eyes. He noticed for the first time that one of Draco's arms was trapped under him, almost wrapped loosely around his waist. Draco slowly pulled that arm free as grey eyes watched him, unreadable as ever.

"Morning," the Slytherin said in a soft, noncommittal voice, before twisting his arms overhead in tired stretch, something popping in his back as he did. Since Harry was still half on top of him, the action pressed a good deal of Malfoy's wiry Seeker's body up against the boy in his bed.

The Gryffindor's green eyes nearly crossed, and he croaked a hasty reply before dragging himself over to sit upright, his knees pulled nearly to his chest and his hands gripped tightly between them. Draco was between him and the edge of the bed, making a quick escape even harder.

_Not hard. Nothing is hard. Stop thinking the word 'hard.'_

There was a familiar clatter of thin metal against the hard top of a table, and when Harry looked up, Draco was holding his glasses out to him. _Oh, this is even worse._

Harry took them without a word, his brain having stuttered to a stop by how _intimate_ it felt for Malfoy to be handing over his glasses. From his bedside table. After they'd slept the whole night pressed together like _that._ With Malfoy's pale hair messy and loose around his face, looking rumpled and cozy in a way that Harry would've never thought possible, propped up on his elbows in a dark pullover. Harry shoved his glasses on and turned to look across the room, where the sun was alarmingly bright outside the charmed windows.

He asked hoarsely, "Do you know what time it is?" He still had never gotten around to replacing the watch he'd ruined in the Triwizard Tournament.

Draco looked at his own expensive watch and told his bedmate, "It's just half-eight."

Harry jerked around to stare at the blond. "Are you serious?!"

When Draco nodded, Harry exclaimed in a heartfelt voice, "Fuck, fuck, _fuck!_ Oh, the team is going to kill me. I was supposed to be on the pitch at eight! And here I'm meant to be the experienced, senior player. _Fuck_." He shoved Draco aside so he could scramble from the bed, and Draco just managed to catch himself on the bedside table so he didn't end up in a pile on the ground. He chose not to say anything, generously chalking all this up to whatever stress Harry seemed to be experiencing over their sleeping arrangements.

All the while that Harry was bemoaning his imminent confrontation with the Gryffindor Quidditch team, he was grabbing up his bag and stepping into his shoes, breaking down the backs as he tread on them in his rush. He dashed for the door but then paused a moment with his hand on the knob. He didn't quite turn around, but he inclined his body slightly towards the boy still on the bed as he said, "See you later, yeah?"

Then Harry was out the door and running down the hall before Draco could say a word—ignoring what he'd just woken up to in favor of focusing on how royally pissed his teammates were going to be.

* * *

DRACO FELL BACK ON HIS new bed, grudgingly impressed by how quickly Potter had shot out of the room. Draco himself had woken quite a bit earlier than Harry that morning and had thus had a lot more time to process the situation. Though even he wasn't sure how or when in the night they'd ended up in such a compromising position, and he'd been quite surprised to find Harry draped over him when he'd first regained consciousness.

His first thought had been to lash out when he'd felt the unfamiliar weight on his body, the soft breath tickling against throat. But his Slytherin instincts had forced him to freeze and assess the situation. Once he'd realized it was Potter lying atop him—and, judging by the hard lump pressed against his hip, fairly happy about that fact—Draco had to admit he'd found himself at a bit of a loss. Bedding Harry Potter certainly hadn't been part of his plans.

 _Great Salazar,_ Draco had realized in shock, _can it be that Harry Potter likes boys?_

This had been followed by an even more unbelievable thought: _Can it be that Harry Potter likes_ me _?_

So he'd lain there with Harry sleeping burrowed against him and tried to review the last month that he had spent with Harry—trying to read what could be read from their actions. But Draco didn't have any real basis for comparison. He'd never had a close friend, let alone a boyfriend, and so he didn't know if they'd been crossing lines that he wasn't even aware of. He'd assumed this was normal for people like Harry Potter. Touch wasn't something people tended to lavish on one another in Slytherin house, let alone in Malfoy Manor, so he'd simply indulged in being able to rearrange Harry's hair to his liking or pinch the boy when he was being a git or even just lean into him because he felt like it. But were these not normal actions for friends, even for Gryffindors?

While he'd still been trying to analyze every past touch for extra meaning, Harry had woken, and Draco had heard the boy's sharp intake of breath. And while he'd been flustered, Potter hadn't gone running for the hills screaming. Then Draco had decided to test the waters by stretching languorously underneath the boy, allowing Harry to feel every inch of his body, and he'd been rather pleasantly rewarded by Harry's reaction. _No,_ he thought to himself, _seducing Harry wasn't part of the plan. But a good plan must always be adaptable._

* * *

HARRY HAD BEEN NEARLY A full hour late to practice by the time he'd run to Gryffindor Tower, changed into his Quidditch robes, had a brief bout of soul searching, and got out to the pitch. In one sense, it was lucky that Ron was still angry about dinner the night before, because it meant he didn't even ask Harry where he'd been all night, only berated him for holding everyone else up by being late.

Harry was too distracted to bother defending himself. He ran through all the drills mechanically, his years of experience allowing him to duck bludgers and catch the snitch out of habit while his mind was quite definitely elsewhere. He was scared, unsettled, and sure that everyone would be able to tell just by looking at him that he'd spent the whole night in bed with Draco Malfoy. More than that, his body had _responded_ to Draco Malfoy. For a moment, he'd even wanted to dig his hands into that pale Malfoy hair and—

 _No._ He definitely had not.

He didn't even like Malfoy—certainly not in that way. He couldn't possibly. And yet he'd never had a reaction like that before. Not with a boy. Not with anyone outside of his dreams really.

What about Cho last year?

 _Oh god,_ he thought to himself, _is that why I couldn't make it work with her? I was always complaining about how I didn't understand girls, but does that mean I like boys?_

Harry wasn't sure who he could possibly talk to about this, if he could talk to anyone. Ron would freak out and would probably never speak to him again, as if he were even speaking to Harry now, which he conveniently wasn't. Maybe Hermione would be a bit more open minded? She was raised in the Muggle world, with a pretty liberal-seeming family.

Harry didn't have any real idea how people in the magical world reacted toward homosexuality (not that he was gay). He'd never seen anyone who seemed out in the Wizarding world. But surely it couldn't be any worse than his relative's opinions, could it? The Dursleys had never minced words, since dragging down anyone different was such a favored pastime of theirs.

Hermione would know. And she would be able to explain it as some sort of hormonal thing. Or stress. Maybe just stress. He'd almost managed to convince himself that everything was perfectly fine, when he suddenly had a flashback to a vague memory of himself, Hermione, and Parvati up in the girls' dormitory, holding hands, and a trembling whisper of "White Horses."

* * *

DRACO WAS READING IN HIS room. Or at least Draco was staring at a book in his room, though he hadn't really absorbed anything from it. He was still mulling over how to proceed with Harry, sure that he would see the boy again before long. They simply tended to gravitate towards each other in that way. But things had already been complicated enough by the realization that Harry and Voldemort had some sort of psychic link. Draco's plans, risky and tenuous from the start, were slowly drifting farther and farther off the course he'd plotted before returning to Hogwarts.

Of course, it was possible that Potter would still be so alarmed by how he'd reacted that morning that he would pretend the whole thing hadn't happened. That would be fine, as long as he didn't try to distance himself from Draco and undo the progress Draco had made. But what if Harry had gotten over his initial panic and decided he was interested? If he made any overtures, rejecting him would be a nail in Draco's own coffin, which meant there really was no helping it. Keeping on Harry's good side long enough to pull off his own schemes might involve a very different sort of commitment than he'd first imagined.

It could be considered a problem that Draco didn't particularly like boys. But then he didn't particularly like girls either. He did rather like Harry, though things were much simpler when he pretended to himself that he wasn't aware of that fact. Closing his book for a moment, his fingers still holding his place, Draco tried to imagine taking the Gryffindor's face between his hands, trapping him in place, putting his mouth on Harry's as the boy stared at him with those wide green eyes. He could feel his pulse pick up as he realized he didn't dislike the image. Not at all. Having Harry Potter at the mercy of his touch and his kisses would be one way to capture the other boy's attention, that was for sure.

Draco had told Harry the truth: he'd hated the young hero ever since Harry had rejected him in their first year. Draco had never experienced anything like Harry's rejection before that moment. It was true enough that his parents ignored him whenever it pleased them, but they were his parents and that's just what they did. They were vague distant entities who happened to live in the same house with him and mete out punishments if he was foolish enough to be caught underfoot. He'd thought it no more unnatural for them to ignore him than it was for the gods to ignore him.

But everyone else he had ever met had feared him, catered to him, bowed to him, hated him. _No one_ had ever treated him with the same disregard as Harry had on that memorable encounter. So Draco had spent the last five years ensuring that Harry Potter would never be able to dismiss him again.

Draco was used to doing whatever was necessary to achieve his goals. He wouldn't let minor details such as his sexuality or five years of resentment for the other boy wouldn't stand in the way of what really mattered. But perhaps they wouldn't even be a problem. If Harry Potter wanted taking advantage of, then he would take advantage of the innocent fool. _For the plan. That's the only thing that matters. It's all for the plan._

* * *

AFTER PRACTICE, HARRY HAD SHOWERED in a rush and left before the rest of his teammates, hurrying back to Gryffindor Tower in search of Hermione. When he didn't find her there, he checked her next favorite hang out: the library. He found her in a back corner, nearly hidden by a stack of Arithmancy books, and tiptoed up to slip quietly into the chair next to her, letting her finish whatever tangent she was on before snagging her attention. "Hermione, I need to ask you about that spell we did."

His bushy-haired friend looked distracted and asked him wearily, "Which spell, Harry? We do hundreds of spells every day. You're going to need to be a little more specific."

Harry whispered back, "That charm that we did with Parvati. That 'white horses' thing."

"Wha—?"

Before she could finish her question, Harry spoke right on top of her, leaning over the table till his face was close to hers, "I need to know: was it really supposed to find you your 'true love' or whatever? Or was it just supposed to find you a boyfriend? I mean, you said it yourself: that charm is usually used by witches. So is it just supposed to find you a bloke? Because, Hermione, I'm a bloke, in case you didn't notice."

Hermione caught up with what Harry was saying and had a sudden, sick feeling that Harry was about to throw himself at her feet as possible boyfriend material. But then he repeated himself in a sort of hysteria, " _I'm_ a bloke. I don't need a bloke, Hermione. I don't _want_ a bloke."

Swamped for a moment by a vast sea of relief that her best friend didn't seem to have _those_ sorts of feelings for her, she waved a dismissive hand through the air and told him in what she thought was a reassuring tone, "Don't worry about it, Harry. The charm was a complete dud. That 'true love' of Lavender's ended up to be a right disaster and was messing around with other girls on the side."

Harry looked as if the rug had been pulled out from under him, and he asked her weakly whether that really discounted the charm altogether.

Hermione's face turned serious, and she closed the book that she'd been hoping to continue reading. "No one should have believed such a charm anyway, Harry. All my research into such charms makes me conclude that there's no way for it to have had any real effect. It's not that such wandless magic is impossible. As I understand it, you've been dabbling at it with Flitwick." Harry realized he really hadn't updated Hermione in a while about the extent of his 'dabbling,' but he was too busy panicking to correct her now.

"No, it's not the wandless nature that's the problem," she continued, "Or rather, the wandlessness becomes a problem only due to the indefinite nature of the spell. Our magic can perform concrete feats—we can modify properties of most any thing, person, or place. We cannot, however, command such amorphous concepts as love, particularly with wandless magic. Imagine if you could make someone love you simply by wishing it!"

Hermione sounded wistful as she said, "Love doesn't work like that. Even love potions and their ilk of illegal charms don't really produce love but something more similar to a weak form of the Imperius curse, where the caster has power over his or her victim's emotions and urges." Her eyes narrowed then, as it began to sink in exactly what Harry had and hadn't said. "The spell couldn't have caused you to have feelings for anyone, let alone for a 'bloke', as you put it. Why do you ask?"

He opened his mouth but nothing came out. How could he explain this to Hermione? But she'd always helped him with his relationships in the past. "Uh, well, I might have had a...strange feeling. Towards a boy."

Hermione stared at him, looking almost comically shocked even though she'd suspected what must be coming. She stuttered as she spoke, "A-a boy? You mean... _romantic_ feelings towards another boy?" Harry nodded miserably, though he wouldn't have described it as 'romantic.' Telling her it had been purely physical wasn't any better. And either way, Hermione didn't look reassured. "What are you saying, Harry? Are you saying you think you might be gay?"

Harry blanched, not ready to even hear the words aloud. "No," he said at once. "No! I couldn't be gay...right?"

Hermione latched onto his denial at once. "No, of course not. Surely not." Her voice seemed strangled though, as she told him, "Don't worry, Harry. And just—maybe don't jump to any conclusions. Or do anything rash. Whatever you felt, there might be some other, very logical explanation for it." She fumbled her book open again, eyes avoiding his. "I'm so sorry, Harry, but I really do have to finish this assignment tonight. But...we'll talk soon. All right? Don't worry. And don't say anything to anyone else. 

Harry realized he was being dismissed, and he slunk out of the back corner, feeling as if telling Hermione might not have been such a good idea after all. He didn't know what he'd expected, but it certainly hadn't been whatever _that_ had just been.

 _Whatever this is that I'm feeling, is it really something that's_ wrong _with me?_ He knew it was abnormal, of course. His aunt and uncle had always made that clear enough, as did the TV programs they liked to watch. He'd been panicking himself when he'd first thought of the possibility. But seeing Hermione's flustered reaction had been like a bucket of cold water. Would it really be so bad if he might be attracted to another boy? _I suppose it must be._

* * *

_I CAN'T LIKE A_ BOY.

He was still convincing himself as he walked down to the dungeons. _It's just hormones. Stress. I shouldn't read so much into it. I'm sure Draco, er,_ Malfoy _hasn't. After all, it wouldn't be the first time a sixteen-year-old boy woke up excited for no reason. It was probably just some dream I didn't remember. But it has nothing to do with Malfoy. I_ can't _like a boy._

Still repeating that litany to himself, Harry gave Draco's door only a cursory knock before he let himself in. His eyes immediately latched onto the blond, who seemed lost deep in thought, not in his usual position at the window but perched instead on the edge of his new bed. His sharp chin was resting in the palm of one hand, white-blond hair mussed as if he'd been running his hands through it, and every one of Harry's protestations died with a whimper.

Draco noticed his arrival and looked up, his pale eyes seeming to reflect too much light like some nocturnal beast. _There was a name for that,_ Harry thought wildly to himself, half-remembering some biology lesson from the dregs of his Muggle schooling, and he couldn't say a word. Forget trying to broach the impossible subject of that morning and what it implied, he couldn't even remember how to speak English. Draco's lips looked dry and pale as he said, "Hello, Harry."

The Gryffindor sagged back against the door, as if whatever strings that had held him up so he could play his part in this drama had been abruptly severed by those two words. He cast about for a reason why he was here—in Draco's _bedroom_. He hadn't even thought about why he was coming down to the dungeons. It was purely habitual by now. If he had free time, he made a beeline for wherever Malfoy might be, to see what outrageous thing the blond might say or do next to distract him from every other thing he couldn't control in his own life.

"Hey. We, uh, we haven't done any practice lately, so I thought we ought to. Practice, that is. Ought to practice." He knew he sounded like a prat, but he couldn't seem to help it. He tacked on, breathlessly, "How are you at shielding charms?" Swapping useful skills was ostensibly the only reason that they met with one another, but in reality that had stopped being the case ages ago. It had been weeks since they had done anything other than try to one-up one another with wandless magic or swap insults so they could elbow and shove and touch while pretending it was a fight.

Draco pushed himself up off the bed, and his narrow frame suddenly seemed far too skinny to Harry, though he had the same Seeker build himself. He stared at that lithe figure, wondering how he'd ever seen Draco as a threat. He didn't know how he'd ever seen him as anything other than collection of fascinating planes and angles that he wanted to trace the lines of. With his eyes. Maybe with his tongue. Jesus. Malfoy had said something. He'd agreed that his shielding could use some practice. Harry shook his head.

"Right," he said, a little too hoarse and a little too late. "Figured."

Just as he'd done once with the D.A., Harry ran through the seven most useful and used shielding spells, outlining what each was best for. Draco was already familiar with them in theory, so after a practice cast or two, they started in on practical trials by having Harry throw curse after curse at Malfoy while the blond tried to choose the best shield to counter each attack in a split second. Throughout it all, both boys were acting self-conscious and nervy. They kept away from one other, avoiding contact even when it became conspicuous to do so. The only hint of their usual levity came when Draco brought Harry up on some of the curses he was using to test the blond's defenses.

"Why, Potter!" he exclaimed, a mocking glint in his gray eyes. "You hypocritical bastard—that's a _Dark_ _spell_. Imagine, the Gryffindor Wonder Boy using Dark magic."

Harry looked aside, refusing to meet Draco's eyes, and he muttered, "These aren't that Dark. Nothing like the Unforgivables."

Draco didn't like the knowing tone with which Harry mentioned the Unforgivables, and he was distracted by whatever it was he saw in Harry's face—which caused him to miss blocking the high-level pain curse Harry threw at him next.

The Slytherin fell to the floor screaming, his reaction completely beyond his control as his body jerked spasmodically and seemed to try to tear itself apart. "Shit!" Harry spat, and he cast the counter-curse without thinking. He was on his knees beside Malfoy in a second, already casting a pain relieving spell for magical maladies. " _Damn_ it, Draco! What were you doing?! You know how to block a curse like that!"

Draco stared up at him, not really comprehending what the dark-haired boy was saying as his eyes slowly cleared from the haze of pain. He thought dimly to himself, _Seems like as good a time as ever._ And he lurched up, grabbing Harry by the front of his shirt and kissing the other boy with his eyes wide open and looking straight into those green irises that would surely be his downfall.

After just a second, Harry jerked away, gaping at Draco wordlessly as he brought up his hand as if to touch his assaulted lips. Then he spun around and ran from the room without a word. Draco was left lying on the floor alone, marveling at the tingling aftershocks of pain from Harry's curse and the brief softness he'd felt in Harry's lips. Maybe he'd moved too fast, but it had seemed obvious that Harry hadn't forgotten about the morning, and Draco had been...curious. That was all.

He forced himself up and ran after the fool. He could hear feet pounding far ahead in the echoing dungeons and sprinted for all he was worth. Harry was fast—he'd had to run away many times in his life—but Draco was also very determined. He wasn't about to let things fall apart now. Before they'd made it back to the main castle, he'd caught up enough to see Harry darting around corners ahead of him. Feeling success within his grasp, he put on a last burst of speed and yelled, "Harry!"

The dark-haired boy didn't even glance behind him as he broke free of the dungeons and pelted across one of the wide halls that connected back to the rest of the castle.

"Dammit, Potter, where's that Gryffindor bravery now?"

Harry faltered and stopped, still not looking back at Draco. His shoulders were hunched up protectively as he asked, "And is this just Slytherin cunning and trickery?"

Draco didn't question why it rang true when he said, "It's not a trick." There was a small smile in his voice when he said smugly, "Though it may have been a bit cunning."

Harry turned and strode quickly back across the cavernous hall, his footsteps echoing upon the stone. Once he reached the shadowy corridor where Draco was waiting, he wrenched off his glasses and pulled the Slytherin to him. Without pausing to consider just what the hell he was doing, Harry kissed Draco Malfoy, and there was none of the awkwardness he'd felt with Cho, only the feel of Draco's lips against his. He couldn't say if it was simply because Draco was a better kisser or if it was a sign of something more: some compatibility, some _rightness_ between the two of them.

After that first sudden impact, when Harry had slammed his mouth against Draco's and felt the hard bone of the boy's teeth in that angry kiss, he began to remember the feel of this. Although he hadn't had much experience kissing, he hoped that it was something like riding a bike—not that he'd ever ridden a bike either—and that you never really forgot. Feeling unsure of what he was doing and yet somehow sure of how _good_ it felt, Harry darted out with his tongue to lightly run it along the crease of the other boy's lips, and Draco opened himself completely to Harry.

Harry dropped his hands, no longer holding Malfoy in place like this were one of their usual fights. The only place that they were touching was the light, unsure pressure of their lips as they slowly explored whatever this might be, but through those tentative sweeps of Draco's warm mouth, Harry began to feel a strange confidence flame to life in his chest. He reached up and let his fingers brush through the silver blond strands that had been teasing him since that morning, and Malfoy's hair was just as buttery soft against his fingertips as he'd imagined it would be.

Before long, Draco took control, increasing the fervor from gentle explorations to bold kisses, and he maneuvered Harry until he had the Gryffindor pushed up against the rough stone. He braced his hands against the wall on either side of the other boy, as they each tried to devour each other in the shadows without crossing the fragile space between their two bodies, as if maintaining that last tiny distance could protect them from anything at this point.

Arms trembling slightly, Draco held himself off of the warm body he could feel mere inches from his own. He wanted to wrap himself around the heat radiating from the Gryffindor. He wanted to press himself against it and feel the hard planes of Harry's chest trapped between himself and the rock, wanted to grind up against him until they were one line from lips to toes. For a few impossible moments, he allowed himself to forget anything about any plans. He'd certainly forgotten that they were barely feet from a relatively public hall, where any other student or member of the staff could walk by at any moment.

At last they broke apart, both breathing hard. Harry had one hand tangled in Draco's hair, the other hanging useless at his side. He still hadn't dared touch the Slytherin anywhere else since he'd first grabbed him and pulled the blond into a kiss. Draco hadn't touched any part of him but his mouth either. The blond's hands stayed pressed against the stone beside Harry's head, holding him away. They were both looking down, refusing the meet the other's eyes or even look into the other's face.

Harry could feel his heart pounding as if he'd been running. Oh, that's right. He had been running. But he'd stopped running a while ago, and it was still pounding. He watched Draco's smooth chest heave under his thin shirt and marveled that he'd provoked such a reaction in the self-contained Slytherin. He watched that motion as if hypnotized, while his mind raced over what to do, what this meant. He couldn't exactly blame this on a dream. He'd been perfectly awake and he'd simply wanted to kiss Draco Malfoy. He'd never kissed Cho like that—hadn't ever even felt the desire to.

But what did it really mean?

This wasn't like Cho—he wasn't going to ask Draco to walk down to Hogsmeade together or go to tea. They wouldn't owl each other little notes to be over-analyzed and read into it. They certainly couldn't walk around holding hands. Harry wasn't sure that he would want any of that, even if it were possible. So what was this?

Feeling as though his heart was lodged somewhere in his throat—choking off any words and perhaps rational thought as well—he curled his fingers deeper into that silky hair to guide Draco's face back up to him and capture his lips once more. Draco accepted the uncertain caress, and the kiss remained soft and undemanding until they pulled apart again.

They both seemed to take this mutual acceptance as some sort of sign, and Draco let himself lean into Harry at last. The Gryffindor switched his hold on the boy, daringly sliding his hand around to cradle the back of that blond head, enjoying the feel of the baby-fine hair that his fingers burrowed into. He gently rubbed the tender spot where skull met spine and, only now remembering that he'd recently cursed Draco with a pain spell just a few steps shy of the Cruciatus curse, he asked, "You all right now?"

Draco laughed, and Harry could feel the puff of air on his skin. He sounded as scornful as ever—and Harry was relieved for it—when he said, "What, that curse of yours? Don't you have a high opinion of yourself, Potter. That curse was nothing. I've felt far worse. Hell, I've probably used far worse." He was speaking softer now, almost directly into Harry's ear, and Harry could feel the curve of a smile as their faces touched briefly. "You'll still have to teach it to me, of course."

Harry snorted and tugged none too gently on that silvery hair. "We should get out of here before someone comes along. It's about time for dinner anyhow."

They pulled apart, straightening their clothes. The distance, though, left just enough space for awkwardness to come creeping back in between them. Harry wasn't sure where to look, a slight tremble in his hand as he ran it through his messy hair. When he finally stole a glance at Draco, he saw the blond's hand half-lifted, as though he might reach out to Harry but wasn't sure about closing even those few inches. Malfoy, who never seemed uncertain about anything, who sauntered through the school like god's gift to Wizarding kind. Seeing that even _Malfoy_ was acting unsure sent Harry spiraling into a sudden abyss of doubt. Oh god, what had he been _thinking?_

Draco looked at the two of them—realizing how stupid and Hufflepuff they were acting—and exclaimed, "Oh, this is ridiculous."

The Slytherin grabbed Harry's face but stopped just short of kissing the boy again. He paused with those scant inches between them and searched Harry's wide, uncertain eyes. Only then did he push across that suddenly awkward distance and kiss the boy again, quick and hard.

"Listen, Potter," he started, his mouth still against Harry's. "Do you remember what I told you yesterday?"

"No," the Gryffindor said, his lips turning up into a smile that Draco felt against his. "I try not to remember anything you say, Malfoy. It's usually a bunch of wank."

"Fine," Draco said, his tone matter-of-fact as he pulled away. "Have it your way. Let's go get dinner then." And he turned and strode away.

Harry followed after him, laughing as he protested, "Wait, what did you mean? What was that about yesterday?"

"No, no," Draco chided him. "All I say is 'a bunch of wank.' You certainly don't want to hear more of that."

"Tell me," Harry wheedled.

"Certainly not. I don't bother wasting my brilliance on those who can't appreciate it," Draco sneered, unable to keep it up more than moment without snickering.

" _Tell me._ "

They bickered the whole way to the Great Hall, a curious new energy buzzing through the exchange, fragile and exhilarating. They weren't specifically touching, but they walked close, the backs of their hands brushing up against one another. When they pushed through the double doors that led to the dining hall, Harry was glad to see Ginny and Luna already at the Hufflepuff table, exactly as they had been the night before—though perhaps a part of him wouldn't have minded if they weren't there and he and Draco had ended up with no company but each other's.

Then, without warning, Harry stumbled, and the world seemed to spin for a moment. _What am I thinking?_ The thought whirred through his head, buzzing like a vindictive wasp. _Just last night, I had to force Malfoy to come sit with us. Less than 24 hours from that to snogging him up against a wall in the middle of the castle. Would Ginny even want to sit with us if she knew what I'd just been doing with another guy? With a guy like Draco Malfoy?_

Harry felt a hand at his elbow, and he looked up, forcing his eyes to focus on the pale specter who was holding him steady. Draco's face didn't show much, it rarely did in public, but his hand was solid and reassuring. Harry thought he saw a bit of concern in the questioning look that the Slytherin gave him, and he hauled himself back under control. _It's fine._ _Whatever this is, no one else knows. No one else has to ever know._

Malfoy's eyes crinkled up a bit at the corners. "Did you finally remember?" he asked, a note of teasing in the words.

"What?"

"What I told you yesterday." Draco smirked, shadows of that hall where they'd kissed at play in his gray eyes.

_Whatever this is, I want it._

Harry laughed helplessly at the ridiculousness of it all. " _No,_ " he said. "So are you going to tell me now?"

"Absolutely not," Draco said, releasing his grip on Harry's elbow so he could push the Gryffindor towards the table. Even Draco didn't know what he'd meant to say the first time he'd asked Harry the question. He'd been thinking of the conversation they'd had when Harry had asked if he could trust Draco. Maybe he would have tried to give the boy some assurance that this was one of those few things Harry could trust him on. Maybe he would have thrown more Whitman at the other boy. It didn't matter any longer because now the fun was in teasing Harry into thinking he'd forgotten some significant thing that Draco had told him, and it was all a bunch of nonsense. Just an anchor to hold them steady so they didn't drift off into the night sky above them, heady on whatever was happening. Just an anchor to keep them from somehow drifting away from one another.

"You all right?" Ginny asked, wide-eyed, as Harry dropped onto the bench opposite her.

Harry gave a nervous laugh as Draco took a seat beside him. "Fine. Guess I was hungrier than I thought."

Ginny picked up her conversation about the upcoming Quidditch season with the nearby Hufflepuff players and enthusiasts. The two opposing Seekers joined the conversation eagerly (which is to say that Harry joined the conversation eagerly and Draco insulted all the other players eagerly).

When Hermione came over, Harry was moaning about the Gryffindor team: "We just don't have it together! We don't have a captain—though Ron's been unofficially put on the spot. And every other one of our players has no experience on a house team. We're lucky if they've even played a bit of pickup or some backyard Quidditch as kids!"

Draco interjected coolly, "Well, at least they would have an edge over you there, Potter. I think we all remember who at this table was the most under-qualified Seeker in a century."

Everyone tensed, knowing all too well about the fierce competition between the two boys on the pitch. Harry might not have usually noticed, but he was hyper aware of anything to do with Draco tonight. He replied lightly, "I'll say to you again what I said to you when we were eleven: it was all thanks to you, Malfoy." Then he shoved Draco with his shoulder and said, "And I seem to remember a certain someone finding his way onto his house team with seven brand-new Nimbus 2001's."

Hermione had the incident from second year burned into her memory, as well, since it had been the first time she'd ever been called a Mudblood. But neither boy seemed to remember it for that significance. Draco flashed a devilish smile and said, sounding pleased, "That was rather obvious, wasn't it? But who wants to go through all that plebeian mess of trying out. I'm a damn good Seeker. Always beat everyone but you, and you can bet I'll be fixing that record as well this season."

Harry laughed and said to their motley audience, "He's all bark and no bite. So much for the infamous Mal-"

Harry broke off by jolting upright in his seat with an undignified squeak. Draco had reached over and slipped his hand onto Harry's lap, squeezing not-so-gently. The shock of someone dropping their hand into his lap was apparently a bit much for the innocent Gryffindor. Draco almost purred as he said sweetly, "What was that about no bite, Potter?"

None of the others knew for sure what Malfoy had done to get such a reaction out of Harry, but since whatever it was had involved grabbing under the table, most decided they didn't want to know. But they all laughed regardless when Ginny quoted at Harry, " _Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus_."

The dark-haired boy rolled his eyes and said unconvincingly, "Fine, you are all bite. You horrible, debauched Slytherin, you."

The others couldn't see how he had plucked Draco's hand from his lap and laced his fingers between the other boy's for a moment. Draco looked pleased as he growled, "And don't you forget it. Dragon bites are poisonous, you know."

Ginny laughed as Harry flushed red, Luna smiling mildly over the scene, and somewhere down the table someone was remarking in wonder, "I never though I'd see the day—eating dinner with Draco Malfoy!" But Hermione was watching the two boys suspiciously. She certainly wasn't the only one bothered by their sudden lack of animosity, but she was probably the only one who was questioning just how deep their new relationship ran. _I might not be only to notice it if they keep it flaunting like this,_ she thought angrily.

Once Harry had told her about the strange new feelings he'd had, it hadn't taken her long to realize that he must have been talking about Malfoy. After all, who else did he spend time with—except Ron? Surely, it couldn't be Ron. Besides, it would explain his strange behavior with Malfoy lately, like practically inviting the boy into the Gryffindor common room and dragging him to dinner with them.

She thought it was perfectly clear to see, as she watched the two boys kicking each other under the table, even while they were each carrying on their own separate conversations. It must be some sort of spell or something that Malfoy had done to influence Harry. It wouldn't surprise Hermione all that much if Malfoy was gay—no straight guy was normally that well groomed. But if he was manipulating Harry into this for his own evil reasons...

Hermione couldn't let it happen. She was already feeling guilty enough, since she'd been the one to tell Malfoy about the D.A. meeting in the first place. She might have been the one to accidentally force the two of them together, and she was not about to let Harry's life be destroyed for Malfoy's amusement. Or, even worse, for some scheme the Slytherin might have to hurt or betray Harry.

When she'd told Malfoy about their defense club, Hermione had only been acting in Harry's best interests. She'd been trying to save her best friend—trying to save him from having to commit a murder that she knew would destroy him. Dumbledore had accidentally let it slip to her that he knew the full truth of the prophecy that entangled Harry's fate with Voldemort's, and it hadn't taken much for her to get the whole story out of the kind old headmaster. As soon as she had, she'd known she had to find some way to help save Harry from the prophecy's demands.

Dumbledore had also been the one to bring up the issue of Malfoy's uncertain loyalties, and suddenly it had all seemed so simple: she would bring Malfoy over to their side, not particularly for his own good or anything, but so that he could kill Voldemort and save Harry from doing the dirty work.

Destroying another human being (even one so questionable as to their humanity as Voldemort) would eat away at Harry—even the idea of it had obviously weighed on him since they'd come back to school. Malfoy, on the other hand, had probably been torturing kittens since he was old enough to hold a wand. He was a terrible person, raised by terrible people to be cruel and selfish and unfeeling. Putting down a monster shouldn't weigh so heavily on him. And even if it did inspire some guilt in the blond, it probably wouldn't be any more than he deserved after all the ill he'd done so far in his short life. But Harry—Harry had done nothing to deserve the burdens that fate had placed on his young shoulders. Absolutely nothing at all. It simply wasn't fair. And in trying to find some way to help him, she might have only made things worse.

Hermione watched the two of them carefully throughout dinner, and while none of their actions were really any different than the night before, everything now seemed terribly intimate to her. They sat so closely that they were constantly touching. It had always been a bit hard not to do so when crammed on the long benches that lined the house tables, but the school was so much smaller now that there was plenty of free space to go around. Yet they made sure to constantly touch, as they elbowed and jabbed and stole food from each other's plates.

Even when they were interacting with other people, they kept half-listening to each other and interjecting comments and insults into one another's conversation whenever it seemed necessary. And all the time they seemed to be slightly tuned in to one another, tied up in themselves, a tiny world that no one else could fit into. Similar to but still so different from when they'd used to fight, it seemed for each of the two Seekers that his counterpart demanded the largest share of his attention, no matter who else was around. It felt like watching a car wreck in slow motion.

Ron was also unhappy as he watched his supposed best friend jostling Malfoy at the Hufflepuff table, though he wasn't sure why Hermione seemed so angry. She was positively glaring daggers at Harry and Malfoy. Maybe she was just bothered with this weird new act of Malfoy's—as Ron himself was—but then why was she still sitting with them instead of coming back to the Gryffindor table? Ron wasn't sure what was going on, but he'd decided that he wasn't going to get into it. Not with Hermione or with Harry.

He'd still been annoyed at Harry that morning, but he'd had also had a very long day to remember how much less fun life was when he was mad at his best friend. Now that the twins were gone and his only choices for company were Neville and Seamus, it was feeling pretty lonely among the Gryffindor boys on his own. He didn't like Harry hanging out with Malfoy, but as long as Ron didn't have to hang out with the creep, too, he told himself he wasn't going to lose his friend to the Slytherin by starting yet another fight.

* * *

RON WAS UNLUCKY, THOUGH, AND his new resolve was challenged just three nights later. He was looking for Harry because they needed to go over the plans for the Quidditch team, but for some reason it was awfully hard to pin Harry down these days.

Like all of them, he was swamped with schoolwork, of course. It was just as bad as their O.W.L. year, although the few remaining seventh years assured them that it was nothing compared to N.E.W.T. year. And Harry was off on his own quite a bit, probably on the pitch or in the library, Ron assumed. Plus all that extra tuition that seemed to last hours each night recently. Ron wondered if Harry's special lessons were getting more difficult, because he seemed to be getting back to Gryffindor Tower later and later.

The Gryffindor prefect hadn't seen Harry since dinner had ended, but when he'd gone to check the sixth year boys' dormitory, he'd seen that his friend's Firebolt was gone. Deciding to take a bit of break from his revising (which he wouldn't tell Hermione about, of course), he hurried down to the pitch. It was half past seven, so Harry had probably decided to squeeze a bit of practice in before his meetings started at eight. Ron headed across the grounds towards the pitch and saw a minuscule figure flying in the dying light, though it was really getting too dark to see much of anything.

The toy broomstick dove toward the ground, and Ron quickened his pace. He cut up one of the back stairwells of the stands that stood all around the pitch, emerging at the top of the ground-level stands. He started down the empty rows of seats, and he could see Harry walking across the pitch towards him. He was about to call out to the boy when he spotted Malfoy sitting down on the field, just where Harry was headed.

Ron stopped where he was. The two Seekers were no more than twenty feet from him, but they wouldn't notice him unless they happened to crane their necks to look above and behind them. He watched, unintentionally hidden behind the lip of the stands' front wall, as Harry arrived in the pool of light cast by Malfoy's wand, planted upright in the half-frozen ground. Normally at this point, Ron would have expected some sort of confrontation: the regular "Get off my pitch, Malfoy!" or "Spying for Slytherin, are we?" But the blond simply went on writing notes on a parchment pad that was balanced across his knees while Harry stopped next to him, not to bash his head in but rather to lean casually on his broom.

Though he couldn't hear more than the indistinct tones of their teasing voices and occasional snatches of words, it seemed that Harry was chiding the other boy for not flying with him. Ron was surprised to hear that Malfoy had turned down a chance to compete with Harry and show off. Watching as Harry flopped down on the grass next to the Slytherin, Ron opened his mouth to call out at last. Then Harry, for some incomprehensible reason, reached up and grabbed the front of Malfoy's robes—perhaps there would be violence after all? But Harry pulled the blond down to him and Malfoy's lips curled into a clear smile as Harry brought the Slytherin's face to his for a kiss. Then Malfoy straightened back up, returning to his work, while Harry lay on grass and gazed up at the twilit sky.

Ron was dumbfounded. What the _hell_ had that been? That couldn't possibly be why they'd been spending so much time together, could it? The three boys stayed in this tableau for several long minutes: Malfoy writing, Harry lost in his strange thoughts, and Ron unable to tear his eyes away in his shock.

When Harry finally roused himself in order to make it to his meeting on time, he sat up and bumped his shoulder into Malfoy's to get the boy's attention again. He said something to the blond in a low voice, then Ron was horrified to see him quickly kiss the Slytherin _again_ before he left, carrying his broom over his shoulder as he went.

He couldn't deny it—there was something going on between the two boys. But witnessing his best friend willingly kiss Draco Malfoy was a sight that Ron could have lived his whole life never seeing and still died happy. He briefly considered just going down to the field and beating Malfoy into a bloody pulp, but he'd grown up enough to realize that fighting with Malfoy wouldn't really change what had just happened. No matter how tempting or satisfying it might be. He stared wildly at the pale boy who was still working silently on the dark pitch, and without any conscious decision, Ron left in search of Hermione. Hermione would know what to do.

* * *

WHEN HE GOT BACK TO the common room, Ron learned from some of the younger students that Harry had already come and gone. He had a disorienting feeling as he saw all of the idolizing looks on their faces as they spoke of Harry, and he knew that none of them could possibly imagine that Harry had just minutes ago been kissing _Draco Malfoy_.

He spotted Hermione at her usual table and hurried over to her. She saw his shell-shocked expression and quickly got up, abandoning her books. Without needing to even ask, she led him to the prefect's lounge, where a fifth-year girl was reading quietly. The girl was good enough to leave when Hermione asked her, and Ron was so grateful for Hermione's steady presence that he impulsively hugged her.

His hands were actually shaking as he said, "Hermione, I just saw...I just saw Harry with Malfoy, and... _Hermione, do you know what's going on between them?_ "

His plea was met with a look of sympathetic recognition, and Hermione placed her hand on his arm as she said, "Yes, I quite suspected something was going on there. Harry came to me last week and told me that he'd had certain feelings for a friend of his. A _male_ friend of his." Her tone changed as she asked him earnestly, "Did you see Malfoy do anything to him?"

The ginger boy was swamped with relief that Hermione knew and understood what was happening. He said in a dazed voice, "No, it was more Harry doing the doing... I mean, he—he...kissed..."

His voice faded to nothing, and Hermione began pacing in front of him, looking almost feverish with ideas. "It's Malfoy. I think he's done something to Harry. Some kind of spell or potion—surely Dark magic. Harry can't actually be interested in Malfoy. It's just not possible!"

Ron's relief began to fall away from him as her words filtered in through his disbelief. "Hermione," he said unsurely. "That seems...a bit strong."

"A bit strong? Ron, _please_ , you were the one saying that Malfoy had attacked and memory charmed a D.A. member at the beginning of the term!"

"Well, yeah...it's not that I don't think Malfoy is capable of it. I rather doubt he's capable of anything else. It's just that—" Ron waffled. "I mean, everything I just saw was started by Harry. Not Malfoy. Harry was the one who was, er, initiating things." He broke off when he saw that Hermione seemed even more inflamed by hearing this. He asked her, confused, "What's really bothering you so much about this?"

She retorted, "What _doesn't_ bother you about this?"

In the face of Hermione's overblown reaction, Ron was forced to be the one to stand up for Harry, and so he said uncomfortably, "Well, I'm bothered to hell that he's doing anything with _Malfoy_ , but maybe this is just some kind of 'phase' like my Mum's always talking about. Or those whore-moan things. After all, Malfoy may be an evil git, but he's awfully pretty. So is Harry, for that matter—if you're into that type of thing." His fellow prefect looked horrified, and it wasn't helped by Ron saying, "Maybe Harry is into that type of thing."

She hissed back, "No, Harry is not into that type of thing! And this isn't just an issue of _hormones_ or some phase!"

Ron was utterly mystified by her vehemence. "Would Harry's being... _gay_ upset you so much?" He swallowed hard and asked in a much smaller voice, "You don't...you don't like him like _that,_ do you?"

"No, of course not!" Hermione flopped down onto the couch that the younger prefect had been reading on when they'd come in and gestured helplessly. "Ron, how is it you always manage to be so ignorant of the world you yourself grew up in? Do you have any idea how the Wizarding world would react to Harry walking off into the sunset with his boyfriend?"

Ron wasn't very familiar with the Muggle imagery, but he thought he understood what she was saying, especially when she continued, "It's just all so wrong! Harry's supposed to save the world and marry Ginny and live happily ever after! You really have no idea how people react to this sort of thing... The Wizarding world is most definitely _not_ tolerant toward homosexuality. And if you haven't seen that, you simply haven't been looking." Her eyes were almost pitying as she watched him trying to keep up with the conversation.

"Some Muggles see homosexuality as a threat to their way of life, but wizards see it as a threat to wizardkind's very _survival_. For so long it's been a struggle to perpetuate wizarding bloodlines, and 'wasting' good, pure blood without producing offspring was—and still is!—seen by many as a direct defiance to the magical world's existence. It's been reviled for so long that no one even needs a reason to hate homosexuals anymore—it's simply become a part of the Wizarding world, like anti-Muggleborn sentiment...only worse.

"Especially for someone as famous and powerful as Harry. And even Malfoy is the last surviving heir to one of the few Pureblood families left, though it's up to debate whether anyone really wants the Malfoy line to continue." She leaned forward and put a hand on Ron's knee, trying to get him to see how serious she was. "Harry would be shunned and ostracized if people knew. He would be torn to shreds. He's supposed to be _perfect_."

Ron was shaking his head and he said, "But you know that he's just a regular person. He's not perfect."

Hermione bit out acerbically, "Of course _I_ know that, Ron. But no one else cares! You know how much negative publicity he already gets for things that aren't even true. The press would eviscerate him if they found out about this—they would ruin his life. He can't be gay, not while he's still in school, and especially not with Malfoy."

Hermione buried her face in her hands, her thick hair falling around her. "Malfoy is surely doing all this just to betray him, either to the _Prophet_ or to V-Voldemort. I could almost understand if something had happened with someone like Dean or Terry—that would have almost been sweet or at least understandable. But _Malfoy?_ It must be some kind of trick. It's just too unnatural."

Ron surprised even himself when he said, "Maybe it's not."

Hermione startled and looked up at him. "Pardon?" she breathed in a faint voice.

"Well," Ron mused aloud, "I mean, it's Malfoy. The two of them have always had a kind of explosive relationship. They've always been in each other's faces and been each other's biggest rivals. They're, well, sort of alike in their total differences." Hermione shot him a withering look, and he gestured her to silence. "No, hear me out. Each of them was practically the unofficial head of his house, each is the Seeker on their house team, each is a sort of heir to their side of the war. They might have a lot of the same kinds of pressures on them." Ron swallowed hard. "I'm not saying that makes it good or right or anything else, but perhaps it's understandable what they might have in common. I mean, Malfoy's the first person our age Harry ever met in the Wizarding world. Did you know that?"

She shook her head mutely, and Ron continued, "He told me once when he was angry at the git. And, well, look at how strongly they've always reacted to each other negatively. Maybe they would react just as strongly in a, er, _positive_ way."

They fell into silence, both mulling over whether it would be better or worse if Harry's apparent relationship with Malfoy made any sort of sense.

Hermione spoke first, sounding vaguely betrayed as she asked, "When did you suddenly grow up?"

Without waiting for a reply, which was good since Ron didn't have one, she continued, "Regardless, we obviously can't let anyone else find out. Until we know for sure what is going on, we can't let it get out to the public. But do you think we should tell Harry that we know?"

Ron couldn't even begin to imagine how awkward that conversation would be. "Uh, no. No, we'll just wait and see. He's got to come to his senses soon. It _is_ Malfoy, after all."

Hermione still wasn't ready to abandon the idea that Malfoy was seducing their innocent best friend through Dark magic, but she agreed to content herself with just watching the boys as Ron suggested. At least, for now.

* * *

DRACO REALIZED IT WAS GETTING obscenely late to be working outside in the dark and cold. Harry wouldn't be coming back. He'd told Draco when he'd left that he had to go back to Gryffindor after his nightly meeting.

The Slytherin breathed in deeply and felt something painful well up inside him at the familiar smell of the pitch. He hadn't told Harry that the reason he wouldn't fly with him that evening was that he'd heard from Pansy the night before that Slytherin would be holding trials for a new Seeker. Draco knew that if he told the Gryffindor Seeker, Harry would've understood how much losing his position meant to him. But he couldn't face that kind of sympathy right now, not without being forced to recognize _himself_ how much losing his spot on the team meant to him.

Besides, why should he tell Harry any of it? This wasn't a real relationship, and even if it were, Malfoys didn't talk about emotions or share their inner thoughts. There was no point in letting Harry have some part of him like that, because then he would just lose that part of himself after Harry was gone. He could allow himself to enjoy the fighting and the snogging and the banter while it lasted, and while it contributed to his own schemes, but that was all it could be. Draco got up, plucking his wand out of the ground and tucking his book and parchment under his arm as he headed back across the dark school grounds.

He and Harry had quickly and easily fallen into a new normal, just as instinctively as when they had first started being amicable towards one another. They acted more or less the same as before, insulting and pinching each other, squabbling jokingly over stupid little things, only now interrupted by kissing and rolling around on Draco's bed. It was a good thing that Draco didn't suddenly have to act all lovesick and _nice_ , which might have strained even his acting abilities if he'd had to keep it up for very long. It was a good thing that neither had to put a name to whatever this was. It was a good thing it couldn't last more than another month either way.

 _There will never be any more perfection than there is now_ , Draco thought to himself, a grim smile playing across his lips as he remembered another couplet of that long Whitman poem. _Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now._

Draco glanced ahead to the brightly lit school. The large clock-tower was barely visible, but it must've been half-nine or later. More than too late to be out in the cold December air. He hurried to the castle, injecting a little more speed into his stride. So they had chemistry—and in spades. So they could talk for ages or be silent together without strain. So Draco felt a fierce, burning possessiveness when he could run his hands over Harry's body and fist his white fingers in that dark hair and know that no one else could do so but him. He would bring it all crashing down anyway.

Even if a part of Draco was beginning to recognize, already too late, that he was going to miss it when it was gone.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 09**

HARRY WAS WANDERING QUITE AIMLESSLY around Hogsmeade in the pale, wintry light. He pushed open the door to Scribners, and the bell above his head tinkled to betray his presence. He smiled abashedly at the clerk before ducking into the stacks, not wanting to engage in any small talk.

It was Wednesday morning, and Harry had skived off his transfiguration class. McGonagall would surely be furious when she tracked him down later, but he was miles ahead of the class (though he didn't let anyone else know it) thanks to his private lessons, so he wasn't overly worried. He'd come down to Hogsmeade with a vague thought of trying to find Christmas presents for his friends, since Professor Lupin had told him in their last meeting that it was now decided that no one would be able to go home for the hols, after all.

Harry walked up and down the rows of books, wondering what to get for Hermione. She would probably be happy with any sort of book, be it history, theory, or even fiction. But he wanted to get her something perfect. Things had been a little weird after their talk in the library, but she hadn't treated him any differently after that day. She still checked his essays and sat with him at meals and asked him how he was doing when he came down from the dorms with dark circles under his eyes. She was still his best friend.

He'd considered getting her something from the Muggle world for Christmas, if he could find some way to arrange it, since they were both cut off from their home world so completely. But he wasn't sure if that would make her feel better or worse. Would it just remind her how she couldn't return to her family or see any of her old friends? Hoping to avoid the risk, he'd come into the book shop in search of some safer choice, and that was how he spotted the small dragon-hide journal in a stack of books leaning haphazardly against the wall.

He carefully unwedged the book, prying it out from under the weight of the tomes on top of it and coughing at the cloud of dust that erupted as he did. The journal was quite small, hardly more than a hand's breadth across, long and thin like an old ledger. It was made of finely tanned dragon-hide the natural verdant of a Welsh Green, soft as suede to the touch, and it had a stylized dragon stamped in silver on the front. It was simple and fine and absolutely made for a poncy git like Malfoy.

Should he even get a present for Draco? Would Draco want a gift from him? He'd never seen they Slytherin exchange any gifts with his housemates or any of his 'friends', but perhaps they'd done it in private.

Before he could second-guess himself, Harry took the book up to the curious storekeeper, who asked him teasingly about his classes as she rang up his purchase. He winked at her as he paid for the journal, then walked out of the dusty bookshop, turning the small book over in his hands in a considering fashion. He still wasn't sure whether he would actually give it to the Slytherin, but at least he had the option now. If Malfoy reacted oddly, he could always just pretend it was a joke and mock him again for having a dragon for his Patronus or a half a dozen other dragon-themed belongings that Harry had come across in his room.

He was so lost in his musings that he never heard the curse that knocked him out. The gilded book slipped from his loose fingers, pages fluttering as it tumbled to the ground to lay forgotten in the grey December mud while Harry Potter's limp body was levitated away, no one any the wiser.

* * *

DRACO WAS FEELING INCREDIBLY UNCOMFORTABLE as he sat at the Hufflepuff table for dinner. He'd been wary when Harry hadn't shown up to dinner the previous night, but Granger and the Weasel had been gone as well, so he'd figured at first that the infamous Gryffindor Trio were just up to something. But then Harry hadn't shown up to classes that day, hadn't contacted Draco at all, hadn't even left a note in his new room. And now he hadn't come to dinner for the second night in a row.

Ron and Hermione were huddled together at the Gryffindor table, Draco had noted as soon as he walked in that evening. Maybe it was his overactive imagination, but he thought they both seemed drawn and tense. It wasn't just his imagination, though, that Hermione kept looking his way with suspicion in her dark brown eyes.

Surprisingly, the youngest Weasel seemed to have taken pity on him, and she continued to come and sit at the end of the Hufflepuff table with him even without Harry there to act as go-between. She didn't try very hard to draw him into conversation, and he kept his own thoughts to himself as he mechanically ate the food in front of him and watched the door, but a small part of Draco was willing to admit he was glad she was there. It was a _very_ small part, mind you. But it would have been humiliating to sit at the Hufflepuff table on his own, and Draco wasn't quite ready to stop coming to the Great Hall for meals, in case Potter actually showed up one of these times. He'd better have a good explanation when he did.

Ginny nudged him on the arm while he was busy returning one of Hermione's glare, and Draco froze and turned to give the ginger girl a cold look instead. She didn't seem frightened, though. She only nodded to the front of the room, where Dumbledore had stood to address the students. Everyone was quick to quiet as they noticed the headmaster's silent sign for attention, and he spoke with a kind, apologetic smile. "My dear students, I'm sorry to interrupt your meal, but I've been hearing some rather distressing rumors. It seems many of you have noticed Harry Potter's absence, and it has led to some wild allegations. Let me tell you now: everything is fine.

"Harry had to return to his Muggle relations for a short tenure, due to a family emergency." The old man's eyes twinkled as he chided them, "He has not been kidnapped or caught a rare infectious disease or even," he seemed to be looking at some of the young Hufflepuffs, "been turned into a flobberworm by a bad potion."

The students he'd been watching flushed in embarrassment at the rumor they had obviously perpetuated. Dumbledore concluded before he sat down, "So put your imaginations to rest and your worries at ease. Mr. Potter will be back among us before you know it."

Draco didn't believe him for a single moment. And neither, it seemed when Draco stole another glance at the Gryffindor table, did Ron. The redheaded lug was watching Dumbledore with a look of confusion, as if he didn't understand why the wizard would be lying.

Draco couldn't believe that Harry would traipse off to the Muggle world and not tell him about it. For over two months now, Harry had come running to him to whinge over every new trauma, real or imagined. Whether it was as serious as one of Voldemort's attacks or as minor as having to redo a potion, Harry never missed the chance to complain at Draco so that Draco could tease him over how pathetic he was acting. Why wouldn't he have come to Draco about something like this? _Maybe because he knows how you'd react regarding his Muggle relations._ No, something rang false in Dumbledore's story, something more.

He knew that there was something else going on, and that the headmaster was purposefully hiding it. He kept his cold and untouchable mask in place, but Draco was beginning to get increasingly worried about where the hell Potter had disappeared to.

"See?"

Draco turned to see Ginny Weasley watching him, an encouraging look on her face. She nudged him again with an elbow. "Harry will be back in no time. Don't worry."

He considered lashing out at the assumption that he was worried, but he was more curious about the glance she shot back toward the front of the room. Her mouth was tight as she looked at Dumbledore, and Draco realized she didn't believe the old man's story either. "You know he's lying," he accused, watching her closely for a reaction. "That story about the Muggles—it's not true."

The girl beside him only sighed, not looking back at him. "Even if it's not, I still believe Harry will be back." She finally met his eyes again, and Draco felt his respect for the Weasley girl go up a couple notches, both because she didn't swallow Dumbledore's story and because she didn't flinch away from his anger. "Harry is very good at making it through things."

The truth was that Ginny liked the headmaster well enough—it was impossible not to be on Dumbledore's side in her family. But ever since her first year, she hadn't really trusted the man.

She remembered how ready he'd been with answers and explanations after the Chamber of Secrets, but if he had known so much, why hadn't he done something sooner to help a petrified eleven-year-old girl under his protection? Even Harry, Hermione, and Ron had been able to figure out the location of the Chamber—as _second years_. How could it be that Hogwarts' most venerated headmaster couldn't figure out the mystery that a couple of twelve-year-olds solved? And if he had known, why would he knowingly let ill-prepared, under-trained children take on one of the most feared creatures in the Wizarding world? Why had he let her suffer so long without raising a hand to help her?

Dumbledore might be good at what he did, and he had certainly gone to astounding lengths to keep the whole of the Wizarding world safe from the great evils that had threatened them in the past, but Ginny harbored no illusions that the decisions he made were always in his student's best interests. Not even Harry's.

And because of whatever was happening to Harry now, Ginny had been left to deal with Malfoy, since no one else was going to volunteer for the job. The Slytherin boy had quickly reverted to his familiar habits, snapping waspishly at anyone who dared speak with him and holding himself distant and aloof. Hermione saw this as proof that he was still the same old bastard as always and that his teasing with Harry must be some sort of elaborate (and sinister, obviously) act. But Ginny wasn't as convinced.

She preferred to believe that Draco was genuine in his reactions to Harry. She'd caught a glimpse of a real person in him when he'd been laughing and joking with Harry during the meals they'd all shared. But Harry had been the only one who could really bring that person to life—and he'd left the Slytherin alone, even if it hadn't been his choice to do so. The icy shell that Malfoy had retreated behind was clearly some sort of defense. The blond had no house, no allies, and no friends...save for Harry. Although she'd grown out of it well enough, Ginny hadn't forgotten what it was like to feel entirely alone and like you had no one in the world you could turn to.

And that was what prompted her to try again and again to pry Malfoy out from his shell, and though he reacted with derision, it wasn't all that different from the scorn he often lavished on Harry. And maybe it wasn't a bad thing for Malfoy to protect himself behind that wall of pride. He was going to need every scrap of pride he had if he wanted to carry on rejecting everyone else in the world but Harry, as he seemed intent on doing. Ginny smiled wryly and thought, _It's no easy task for any of us—being friends with Harry Potter._

* * *

PETER PETTIGREW, MORE OFTEN KNOWN by his once fond moniker of 'Wormtail', was feeling mighty pleased with himself. He'd been sent scurrying around Hogsmeade as more of an excuse than a real mission, and he knew it. Voldemort had merely wanted to get the disgusting, groveling man-child away from him for a while when he'd sent Wormtail back to Hogwarts to see if any of the secret paths and tunnels that he had used as a student were still unprotected or if he could find new ways through the school's defenses. He'd only been sneaking around the town for a couple of days when he saw his chance: because there, on a random drizzling weekday morning, when the streets were mostly deserted, had been Harry Potter wandering around on his lonesome.

Wormtail had watched gleefully as Harry slipped into a bookstore and thought as quickly as was possible for someone of his intellect. He'd remembered how pleased his master had been when he had brought him Bertha Jorkins and her information. Bringing him Harry Potter would surely put Wormtail back on top in the Dark Lord's favor.

In the shadows of the alley, Wormtail had transformed back to his human form. He'd watched as Harry left Scribners and caressed his powerful silver hand. Glancing around to be sure that there would be no witnesses, he'd stunned the Gryffindor and watched him collapse awkwardly to the ground. Then he'd quickly levitated the boy away, Potter's head lolling under the force of the _Mobilicorpus_ spell, and slunk away with his prize.

* * *

POTIONS CLASS WAS A NIGHTMARE. They were working on a particularly nasty and complicated brew that could be used on a piece of writing to reveal who had written it. (Although it could be bypassed and fooled if a wizard were clever enough.) Everyone was doing abominable work, even Granger the Genius. It seemed that they were all feeling the imbalance in the room. It had started at the beginning of the term, when Snape had been unexpectedly turned on Malfoy. And then there had been the influx of new students from the other houses (and the loss of a couple of their own), thanks to the attack on the Hogwarts Express. The Hufflepuffs had quickly sided with the Gryffindors, while the Ravenclaws had stayed out of anyone's business, focusing on their work.

When Malfoy had been banished from Slytherin house, things had started tilting dangerously: the Gryffindors still fought with the Slytherins, and Harry still fought with Draco—but everyone was wary. And now, Harry had gone. There was no goading with Malfoy, no pranks or veiled insults. The loss of one of the last few constant things from their entire school career—the rivalry between Potter and Malfoy—had been the final push to completely disrupt the class's equilibrium. Everyone was jittery, no one was insulting as they usually would have been, and even Draco was being left alone by the Slytherins. Not that he noticed much either way.

It had now been a bad four days since Harry's apparent disappearance. Much of the school still seemed to believe Dumbledore's story, but some of those closer to Harry—as well as some of the most observant Ravenclaws—were finding it difficult to ignore the frantic whispering of the teachers and the tension that both the staff and students positively hummed with. And Draco hadn't slept properly in days.

If something happened to Potter now, what would happen to all of Draco's plans? He'd spent nearly three months getting close to the boy. Potter couldn't simply disappear right before Draco needed him most. All the half-truths and guilt and deceit couldn't have been for nothing. _Potter was the only way out of all this. I can't be out of options. Not again._

Even if he was going to lose him again in just weeks, Draco needed Potter to get the hell back to his side now. He needed to shake the idiot Gryffindor for disappearing with no explanation, for keeping Draco up at nights, for not being there for Draco to mock and tease and wrap himself around to keep the cold of the rest the world at bay. And most of all, he needed Potter back if he didn't want to die at Voldemort's hands.

_Where the hell are you, Potter?_

* * *

HARRY AWOKE TO A STRANGELY familiar burning pain and he realized in a sickening rush exactly what the feeling was. He didn't need to open his eyes to see the large spider-like hands or the red eyes burning in a bleached white skull to hiss surely, " _Voldemort._ "

That inhuman visage twisted into a triumphant smile. "Harry Potter. It's been a while, hasn't it? I haven't seen you since you destroyed my prophecy and got that ridiculous convict godfather of yours killed."

Harry's vision was momentarily lost in a field of white-hot rage as he was reminded of Sirius' pointless death. He growled mindlessly and flung himself at the monster before him, only to find himself stopped by the tight binding that strapped his arms and legs to the chair he was sitting in.

"Now, now, Harry," the Dark Lord chided him. "We can't have you hurting yourself just yet." His horrible smile widened, and he seemed to savor the words that rolled off his tongue as he crooned, "We'll be doing more than enough of that for you soon."

Harry thought back to the prophecy that said he must either destroy this man or be destroyed, thought of all his classmates who had died, of Sirius—and he felt burdened with the same unbearable grief that he had felt last year in Dumbledore's office. For a moment it overshadowed the pain of having Voldemort so near to him, a pain that was near to the Cruciatus, and it was out of his hopelessness that he asked, "Why don't you kill me then? Just get it over with."

Voldemort stroked the boy's hair softly and laughed as Harry wretched from the pain. He said with cold reason, "Oh, I can't kill you now, Harry. I might accidentally make you a martyr." He leaned closer, voice dropping even lower as he spoke with deliberate care. "I can't kill you until I've broken the _world_. Only then will your mutilated, lifeless body be enough to convince the people of their defeat." He took Harry's right hand in his own unnaturally long digits, and Harry screamed, feeling as if his skin was burning away just from that touch.

The Dark Lord spoke directly into his ear so that he could be heard over the screaming, Harry flinching away from him all the while, "But I need your knowledge to break them, Harry." With a decisive movement, he twisted Harry's pinky outward and back, snapping the small bones with a sickening crack. Harry passed out at the surge of pain that didn't ever seem to lessen but instead only seemed to spread through his body.

Oblivion wasn't his privilege, though, and Voldemort revived him with a wave of his wand. Harry's arm jerked spasmodically, but it couldn't get far while it was so tightly bound to the chair and while his twitching hand was clasped in the steel of Voldemort's grip. The Dark Lord seemed to understand some of Harry's unspoken bewilderment at the very physical pain. He explained in a conspirational tone, "Wouldn't want to risk old Dumbledore's attention by using Dark spells. We'll just have to make do with more crude methods."

He let go so that he could pull Harry's wand out from a pocket—they must have searched him when he'd been unconscious—and Voldemort wrapped both hands around the familiar and well-loved piece of wood. He snapped it in two, and the sound of that break was as painful to Harry as the sound of his bones breaking had been. Voldemort watched in satisfaction as the wand-halves burst into flame and crumbled to the dusty ground of the Shrieking Shack, and Harry felt his hopes at escape scattering with the ashes.

"Can't have _you_ trying any magic either," Voldemort said, before taking hold of Harry's hand again. "Now where were we?"

* * *

THE DOORS OF THE GREAT Hall banged open in response to Hagrid's mighty shove, and the students sitting along the tables for dinner turned to stare. The half-giant strode quickly down the length of the suddenly silent hall, apparently unaware of the grisly picture he presented with his hands and front streaked with rusty patches that looked like blood. He went straight to the headmaster, and they held an urgently whispered conference. Without saying anything to the students, Hagrid left again, followed by Dumbledore and Madame Pomfrey. Professor Lupin also got up, but he went to the Gryffindor table to talk briefly with Ron and Hermione. The two students jumped out of their seats in response to whatever he said, and the three of them followed the path that the headmaster had taken.

Draco forced himself not to react, though it was painfully obvious that whatever had happened somehow involved Harry. Why else would his cronies leave with the headmaster and the school nurse? He didn't realize how tensely he was strung, though, until Ginny surprised him by touching him lightly on the arm. He jumped half a foot, then growled furiously at her, " _What?_ "

The Weasley girl almost flinched back but she held her resolve. Her voice was quiet, for his hearing only, as she told him, "They aren't going to let you in to see him. You know that, right?"

He snarled back, but equally as quietly as she had spoken, "Why the hell would I want to go see Potter?"

For some reason incomprehensible to Draco, the Gryffindor smiled at his reaction. She said simply, "I don't know how much you know about Harry, but if you know about his cloak, then I can probably get you in to see him."

Draco could only stare at her. He wanted to deny he had even an iota of interest in running out the door to find out what had happened to Harry, but he wasn't stupid enough to let such an opportunity pass him by. He narrowed his eyes at her and managed to make it sound like an insult when he spat out, "Maybe there is one decent Weasley."

* * *

THAT WAS HOW DRACO FOUND himself trailing silently behind Ginny Weasley, under his borrowed Invisibility cloak. (He hadn't explained how he'd gotten the cloak—he wasn't sure even Ginny would approve of Harry's lending it to him.) He wasn't surprised to find that it was the hospital wing that Ginny led him straight to. The girl surely had no better idea than he did where Harry was, but it was the obvious place to look. And it seemed they'd both been right, because there were Ron and Hermione huddled together outside the entrance.

As soon as she spotted the youngest Weasley, Hermione rushed to Ginny and threw herself on the other girl, practically sobbing. "Oh, Ginny! They won't even let us see him! It just like the Third Task all over again..." Ginny patted the sixth-year girl soothingly, and Draco thought it curious to watch the younger Gryffindor, who he'd always seen as a bit of a twit (if he'd seen her at all), comforting the usually composed Granger.

Ginny asked her brother over the crying girl's head, "Do you know anything yet?"

Ron shook his head, clearly resigned to living through such waits with Harry as a best friend. "Only that he's back. He showed up at Hagrid's cabin in quite a state. Dumbledore wants to question him and have his injuries treated before anyone else _might_ get to see him tonight."

Ginny glanced back as if to catch Draco's eye, though she was actually several feet off, and said in a determined voice, "Well, I'm going to see if I can't get some more answers." She passed Hermione off to her brother. Draco walked up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder. She only jumped slightly and, knowing that he would follow, she shoved the door to the hospital wing open in a wide, swinging arc, easily wide enough for two.

Lupin rushed out from one of the curtained beds almost immediately and seemed harried to see her there. He whispered quickly, "I'm sorry, Ginevra, but you can't be here now."

While Lupin was trying to herd Ginny back to the door, Draco squeezed her shoulder in thanks and slipped around the both of them. He positioned himself on the far side of the curtained bed, up against the castle wall. He could hear Ron and Hermione accost the professor for information as he showed Ginny to the door, then he heard Dumbledore's voice from within the curtained space as the old man said, "It seems your friends will not be patient for much longer, Harry. Let us continue. What happened after Voldemort broke your wand?"

Draco almost missed Harry's soft reply in the jumbled surge of emotions that he felt upon hearing Dumbledore's words. So Harry hadn't just been waylaid by some Death Eaters, but by _Voldemort_ himself. It was almost too horrifying to think about, and he tuned desperately into Harry's hoarse voice instead of allowing himself to consider how close everything had come to falling apart.

"He kept trying to get information from me. He suspected you must've known something more about the prophecy and would have told me. He wanted any information about the Order and their plans, members, meetings."

The dull, emotionless croak that was telling the story was almost unrecognizable compared to the clear lilt of Harry's normal voice, and his words grew even softer as he continued. Draco held perfectly still as he strained to hear. "He didn't want to use any Dark magic. He wasn't sure if the Shrieking Shack was close enough to activate Hogwarts' wards. So he stuck with more...Muggle methods." Draco didn't want to listen, and he didn't want to miss a word, a sick feeling twisting in his gut as he listened to Harry detail Voldemort's methods, telling Dumbledore what had happened to him less than a mile from the school's boundaries. "Beatings. Some spells, but they weren't Dark curses. Just...spells used creatively. Like the carving spell—they told me it was usually used for engraving wood or stone, not..."

There was a brief silence, and Draco wondered what was happening inside those curtains. Harry started again suddenly, clearing his throat and continuing in a strangled voice. "H-hot oil. Some Potions, to keep me awake and aware, to...heighten the senses." He couldn't seem to go any further, and he fell silent for several minutes before he finally ended with, "I don't know how long it all lasted." Dumbledore told the boy that he'd been gone for five days, and Harry repeated disbelievingly, "Five days...?" He was silent again, this time for even longer.

Dumbledore prompted him into speech again by asking, "How did you manage to escape, Harry?" Draco wanted sincerely to hit the old man, but Harry told his audience members—the one who he was aware of and the other who remained hidden—how he had managed to escape during one of the times when Voldemort had left to see to his other plans. Apparently he'd frequently disappeared to visit his headquarters, wherever they might be, and left Harry in the loving clutches of his Death Eaters while he was away.

Harry had done something to his guards with a bit of wandless magic. He said 'something' because he wasn't sure if he had only knocked the masked figures unconscious or if he had accidentally killed them. Then he'd tried to heal some of the worst of his wounds—tried to set the broken bones, at least, so he could run. It hadn't been a huge success, since he hadn't had his wand and had never tried wandless medical magic before. But if had been enough for him to stagger through the passageway that led to the school grounds.

"I know the wards extend underground. I could feel when I passed through them. But we should probably block off the tunnel under the Whomping Willow, and the ones that lead into Hogsmeade. Wormtail knows about all of them."

Draco didn't understand all of that, and it seemed that Dumbledore didn't have a very better idea as he said, "If you will show us the locations of all these passageways, we can be sure to take care of them."

Harry went on, the words coming more easily now that he wasn't talking about his torture, "I cut through the Dark Forest. The acromantula's almost got me—seems that Aragog has finally kicked it, and his offspring are running wild. Not that even Aragog would've helped me. Bane saw me trying to get away but just said some crap about letting the stars run their course. But—but then Grawp found me and brought me to Hagrid. I don't remember much more than that."

Dumbledore's elaborate robes rustled as he stood to ask one last question. "Thank you for telling me what happened, Harry. I know it was difficult for you. I just need to know one more thing: Is there anything you told Voldemort that I should be aware of?"

There was a long silence, during which Draco held his breath. Harry finally said defiantly, with the first hint of heat in his voice, "No, sir. There isn't anything."

Dumbledore didn't say any more, instead calling out to Madame Pomfrey. Draco heard her bullying Harry into drinking some Dreamless Sleep potion, though in the kindest way possible. When the boy was apparently unconscious, the two adults discussed his condition.

"He will recover physically, but some things may not be overcome—even by magic. The boy did an admirable job trying to heal himself without a wand, but unfortunately it made things worse. I've had to re-break and set his fingers, and I can't say just yet whether he'll regain full functionality. And his attempts to heal some of his wounds, particularly those on his chest, have now made them permanent scars. I could have removed the residue from the oil if the cuts were still open, but now the pigments are stuck under the healed skin—like a tattoo. But the lesser lacerations and contusions were healed without complication, and the breaks in his leg should properly set now.

"The biggest concern now is his mental and emotional health, and I must say, Headmaster, that I do not entirely approve of your using a truth potion on the boy when he is in such a state."

Dumbledore led the mediwitch out from behind the curtain as he said regretfully, "I did only what I thought necessary, Poppy."

The headmaster left, and Draco could hear the Gryffindors in the hall entreating with him, begging to see Harry. The mediwitch was firm, though, and said, "Harry has been put to sleep and will not be bothered. You may come back tomorrow." With that final sounding statement, she closed and locked the door to the hospital wing. Draco waited tensely while she checked on Harry one last time, and then at last she retired to her own rooms.

In the silent dark of the large room, Draco slipped into the privacy of the curtained bed. Harry appeared deeply asleep, and so the Slytherin allowed himself to simply stare at the boy for several minutes. There were still faint yellowish discolorations where some of his bruises had recently been healed. Around the voluminous hospital pajamas, Draco could see any number of bandages and salves plastering the boy. His right hand was entirely bandaged, and the boy simply looked horrid. He was paler even than was usual and had dark bruises under his eyes. He looked like he was suffering even in his dreamless state, mouth stretched into a tight line, and Draco reached out hesitantly to brush some of that dark hair back, as he had done a hundred times before.

Harry flinched, and his left hand shot up to grab the offending digits in a surprisingly strong grip. His eyes popped open and darted about madly before seeming to fix on the spot where Draco stood. "Take off the cloak, Malfoy." He loosened his grip on Draco's hand, croaking out, "It's disturbing to be touched by someone you can't see."

There was something dark in those simple words that Draco didn't want to know and didn't want Harry to know. He pulled off the Invisibility cloak unquestioningly and saw Harry already being dragged down by the potion again, eyelids drooping. But he hadn't let go of Draco's hand, and as the blond stood there helplessly, Harry pulled on that hand to drag Draco down onto the bed with him.

Draco edged awkwardly onto the mattress beside the wounded boy, and when Harry's pajama top gaped, he blanched to see more bandages underneath it. He swallowed hard but still didn't say anything to Harry as the Gryffindor tugged on his arm to pull Draco around him, like a living blanket that could protect Harry from the Dark's cold. Draco was wary that the slightest touch might only cause more pain but, as gingerly as he could, he settled himself around the frail boy who was holding himself so stiff, his unbandaged left hand clenched in a tight fist so that he could dig his nails into his own palm.

"It's—" _Okay?_ Draco thought. _Of course it's not._ "You should sleep," he said instead.

"Don't want to," Harry muttered through gritted teeth, though his voice sounded heavy and drugged again. Dreamless Sleep wasn't an easy potion to fight.

Casting about for something to say, Draco finally hit upon an idea. He curled even closer around Harry. "Hey, Potter," he said, voice conspiratorial and warm. "Remember what I told you?"

Harry let out a heavy breath, shaky with the edge of a desperate laugh. They'd kept this up for weeks now. Harry had realized before very long that Malfoy was only messing with him, but he'd still played along as the question came up again and again, mocking, flirtatious, teasing. A sudden query in the heavy silence of the library, an innocent sounding line in a crowded hall, a whisper between kisses. _Remember what I told you?_

"No," Harry mumbled. "Will you finally tell me?"

"Maybe," Draco agreed, "if you go to sleep now."

There was a deep, shivery inhale from Harry, then the dark-haired boy nodded. His words were slurred and hardly understandable as he asked, "Stay a while?"

Draco's throat tightened at the pitiful request. Harry wouldn't beg that Draco stay with him, wouldn't even ask him to stay the whole night. He only asked that he stay a little while. Draco couldn't have refused even if he'd wanted to. Feeling the boy go limp as he fell back into blessed painlessness of drugged sleep, Draco gathered Harry tightly against himself and breathed into that messy black hair, "Yes, Potter. Just a little while longer."

* * *

HARRY WOKE UP ALONE AND wondered if he'd only imagined Draco's visit the previous night. His questioning with Dumbledore was hardly more than a nauseating blur, but he thought remembered the blond appearing out of the shadows, the familiar teasing voice in his ear. It could have been a dream—but he was quite sure Pomfrey would have fed him Dreamless Sleep. So did that mean it had been real?

He was still struggling to believe that he was even back at Hogwarts, and it didn't truly seem to sink in until Ron and Hermione showed up in hospital wing before the breakfast hour had even rolled around. As soon as they saw him, Hermione broke into tears. Ron put an arm around her and asked their friend, "All right, Harry?"

Harry mustered up a weak smile for the two of them. "I'm all right. Or I will be," he lied with a slight wince. His friends didn't know exactly what had happened to him, though it was obvious that he'd run into trouble—which anyone could guess would have involved Voldemort or his supporters. Hermione tried to ask about it, but Harry gave a quick shake of his head, mouth clamped shut. Her eyes welled with tears again, but after that she stuck to small talk instead, filling Harry in on all he'd missed in the last week at Hogwarts.

It was nearly an hour later that Draco showed up at the hospital wing, but he was delayed even further by Professor Lupin at the entrance. The greying man stood in front of the door and told him, "I'm afraid the hospital wing is off limits right now, Mr. Malfoy. If you need medical attention, I can go fetch Madame Pomfrey for you."

Draco kept his face neutral as he said, "No, I'm not in need of medical attention. I'm here to see Potter."

Lupin had seen Harry taking meals with the Slytherin (no one could miss it really) but that didn't mean he was going to let Lucius Malfoy's son in to see Harry when he was weak and vulnerable. The D.A.D.A. professor's voice was unusually chilly when he said, "I don't think that's going to be possible, Mr. Malfoy. Harry needs to recover his health, and I'm sure he doesn't need you to aggravate him."

Draco wanted to hiss back, "Don't be so sure," but kept himself in check by remembering that this was a teacher. Then he remembered that he was Draco Malfoy and didn't give a damn about the teachers in this crap school, so he said it anyway.

Lupin tensed. "Mr. Malfoy, I am giving you the chance to leave peacefully on your own, or I will have someone assist you. You are not getting past these doors."

Realizing perhaps it had been a mistake to talk back to the professor, Draco dropped the blustering act and allowed Lupin to see the seriousness in his face as he said, "Please. I need to speak with Potter. He's my... He's..."

Draco couldn't and wouldn't explain it to the professor. He only knew that he needed to see Harry again to convince himself that the boy really was safe in the castle, where Draco needed him to be, not with Voldemort or anywhere else out of his reach. After Draco had left the hospital wing the night before, he'd tossed and turned in his own bed, plagued by scenes of the torture he'd heard Harry describe and nightmares in which Harry was still gone somewhere far away. By the time he'd woken up in the morning, he would've been willing to go bang on Dumbledore's door to ask whether it was true that Harry had returned the night before and not only a figment of his imagination. But he'd much rather see Harry himself.

He gave up on words and tried to rush past the teacher standing on guard, managing to grasp the handle and fling the door open before Lupin stopped him. Draco grappled with the old man, not even giving the professor time to reach for his wand.

Hearing the door bang open and the ensuing scuffle, Ron and Hermione rushed out to see what was happening. They were shocked to find Draco Malfoy, fighting like a wild animal and attacking _Professor Lupin_. Ron grabbed the wiry blond and pulled him off of Lupin, taken aback by the tension strumming through those ropey muscles. Draco shook himself free from the redhead and glared at all three Gryffindors, his chest heaving and his eyes shining with...well, those couldn't be tears. Not on Draco Malfoy.

Ron asked disbelievingly, "What the bloody hell is going on out here?"

Lupin was staring at Draco, still shaken by the boy's attack. He daubed his bleeding lip and told Ron, "Mr. Malfoy here wanted in to see Harry. He grew enraged when I refused to let him in."

Ron looked the two of them and then threw his hands up. "For God's sake, just let him in then!" Not only Lupin but Hermione and Draco himself all exclaimed, "What?!"

Lupin eyed the Malfoy boy, but the Slytherin was staring critically at Ron. He took a step toward the taller Gryffindor and narrowed his eyes up at him as he said, "You know I told your sister that she was the one decent Weasley. I might have been wrong."

Ron blinked, surprised that Malfoy had even talked to his sister, let alone paid her a compliment—or what passed as a compliment for Malfoy. Then Draco smirked, "The whole lot of you might just be incredibly stupid."

Ron's surprise quickly turned into a more familiar hatred. He growled, "Don't start with me, Malfoy. I can revoke my invitation just as easy as I gave it. Easier, in fact." The words only caused Draco to slip back behind his icy mask, which Ron decided in retrospect was even worse than the insulting but animated boy.

Harry was speechless when he saw his...well, he saw Malfoy, whatever the boy was to him, walk behind the curtain surrounding his bed, together with his two best friends. He couldn't say most of things he was actually thinking in front of all three of them, but he managed to choke out, "What the hell, Draco? Did I just hear you were fighting a _professor?_ "

Ron snorted, and Draco's cold expression sharpened into a glare. "Don't flatter yourself into thinking it has anything to do with you. I just don't like being told no." Then he gave Harry's pale and battered appearance a pointed once-over. "And I only came to see if you were going to be done _convalescing_ by the time of the Slytherin-Gryffindor match next week."

The mention of Quidditch, the sport that had once consumed so much of his life, startled Harry. In the past two years, Quidditch had become more of an afterthought, but it had still always been something to look forward to and enjoy. Now, after the ordeals of the last week, Harry was jolted to realize that the world had continued moving on without him, ignorant of his suffering. Quidditch matches had still been held, tests had been studied for, people had laughed and played games, all while Voldemort had carved hateful words into his flesh.

Harry swallowed, fighting back the dark memories by forcing himself to focus on Draco's silvery eyes—which he only then realized seemed overly bright. But Draco couldn't have tears in his eyes, could he?

Through the short exchange, Ron watched the pair with an odd feeling in his stomach. It was bizarre to see them acting so caustic towards each other after he had seen them be so, ugh, _tender_ when they were alone (or at least they had thought they were alone). But he was perfectly willing to forget about it when he heard Malfoy say, "Slytherin has a new Seeker for you to massacre, Potter. Of course, the poor bastard should be no challenge after an opponent like me."

Harry sat up straighter and snapped, "What do you mean Slytherin's got a new Seeker?" It was the first time Harry had seemed entirely present since Ron and Hermione had shown up that morning.

Draco only nodded, but it seemed to confirm some unspoken question for Harry, who slumped back into his pillow and muttered, "So they really did it." He looked up at Malfoy, and there was something so private and painful in that glance that Ron imagined that Harry had forgotten for a moment that he and Hermione were even there. "Zabini?" Harry asked, cryptically, not seeming to need more than the name for Malfoy to understand what he was asking.

The blond nodded again and told Harry, nominally including Ron as well this time, "Yes. He made sure that Urquhart dismissed Crabbe and Goyle as well, since they're still loyal to me. At least, more than they are to him."

Left out by the talk of unfamiliar power-plays, Ron latched on to the important facts. "You mean Crabbe and Goyle are out as Beaters for the next match?"

Malfoy looked back at him, his face closing off when he wasn't talking to Harry. But he answered Ron civilly enough, and the three boys started discussing the ramifications this would have on all the houses' teams and the runnings for the Cup. Ron and Draco addressed most of their comments at Harry, rather than at each other, but Harry really had little part in the conversation. He was simply enjoying watching Ron and Draco debating about something they both loved.

While Hermione was glad to see Harry's eyes sparkling with life again for the first time, she was silently steaming that it was Draco's presence that had evoked such a change. That kind of sudden shift in attitude and behavior was surely evidence of a spell, and Hermione was determined anew to find out just what hold the Slytherin had over Harry Potter.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 10**

HARRY HEARD THE GUN CLICK uselessly on the empty chamber and heaved a deep sigh as he let his shaking arms drop. It was surprisingly tough to hold a gun up and steady for long periods of time, even if you didn't fire it. And even handguns weren't entirely free from recoil if you _were_ firing off shots, and Harry had been doing quite a lot of that.

Trying to keep his hand from trembling, he slowly loaded new rounds into the 9mm pistol that Lupin had somehow 'acquired' for his practice months ago. Once he was done, he shifted the Browning to his left hand and flexed the fingers of his right hand, grimacing as the stiff muscles pulled. It had only been two days since he'd been released from Madame Pomfrey's tender care in the hospital wing and four days since he'd returned to the school.

Setting the safety on the handgun, he tucked it into the waistband of his pants, at the small of his back. He'd begun his practice with firearms long before his capture, but he'd become rather more serious about it—and started carrying the gun with him outside of the practice room—since he'd lost his wand. With his shirt pulled down over the gun, no one else ever saw it. It might not have been so foolproof if it were only the cloth hiding the Muggle weapon, but the gun also had a Notice-Me-Not spell on it, as well as a silencing spell that no mechanical silencer could ever approach in effectiveness and a particularly useful jamming charm that prevented anyone else from pulling the trigger unless Harry cancelled it. This last one in particular was meant to reduce the potential risk of having a Muggle handgun around the castle, but even with it in place, Harry doubted that either Lupin or Dumbledore would approve of him taking the pistol out of the practice room. He hadn't bothered telling either of them about his new 'security measure'.

Glancing at the clock on the wall, Harry stepped up to the magical target that Lupin had made for him to use for shooting practice. It had a toffee-like consistency that caught the bullets fired at it, with no possibility of them striking the stone wall behind it—which probably would hurt Harry just as much as the wall, given the likelihood that they could ricochet. Now with a wave of his hand, the spent bullets were released, falling to the ground with a clatter. He hurriedly collected them and left them on the table for Lupin. He needed to meet Draco soon, so they could leave for the D.A. meeting on time.

Harry pulled the door to the private room shut and slipped back into Lupin's office, to which the room was connected. It was empty and dark, and Harry felt the professor's wards seal themselves behind him as he hurried out into the halls. He passed a few other students on his way across the castle but tried not to meet their eyes or acknowledge their curious looks. Though Pomfrey had managed to heal all the wounds that anyone else could see before she'd let him out of the hospital wing, it seemed as if the other students had still noticed something different in his face since he'd come back from his absence. It was a relief to leave the rest of Hogwarts behind and disappear into the unused dungeons and Draco's hidden room, feeling his own ward respond and open obligingly for him as he pushed the tapestry-covered door open.

It was perhaps the first time that Harry had walked in to find Draco doing absolutely nothing but waiting for him. The blonde was leaned against his desk and staring at the door Harry had just come through, arms crossed in front of him and looking far more tense than he normally ever did in his private sanctuary. Harry felt the nervousness that he'd been suppressing rise up to meet him, stopping his feet for a moment. Then he walked over and pulled those taut arms from their clenched position, sliding his hands down them until he could twine his fingers through the blonde's thin fingers. Before, Draco might've pulled away from such a move or only haughtily allowed it, but tonight he gripped Harry's hands back just as tightly. Something had changed since Harry had disappeared.

Draco took the words out of his mouth, though, when the other boy asked, "Are you sure about this?"

Harry's breath whooshed out of him in surprise, and he retorted, "Am _I_ sure about this? You're the one who could be facing the Aurors if we do this."

Harry had been surprised by how readily Draco had agreed to help him with his idea for a lesson on the Imperius curse for the next D.A. meeting. Since the start of term, Harry had continued to teach the others about dueling (and had even mixed in some new tricks that he'd learned from Draco over the months), but after his latest brush with the Death Eaters, it had felt like it wasn't nearly enough. Trading stunning spells and bat-bogey curses were still child's play, as useful as they could be in some situations. But truly Dark magic, like the Unforgivables, was what they could really be up against if they were faced with a Death Eater. And while he could lecture the others all he wanted, to really see them—maybe even feel them—was something else entirely. And Draco was the only other person he knew who could cast such Dark magic, unless he wanted to ask Snape.

The truth was that Draco _was_ apprehensive about the meeting. Not because he was afraid he would get caught and sent to whatever they'd replaced Azkaban with—although it was certainly within the realm of possibility. His more immediate fear was that the D.A. would attack him the instant he walked through the door (again) or that Harry's little cronies would try to kill him when they saw him casting Dark magic on their friend. And it had to be Harry, because who else would trust him? Harry trusted him enough—or trusted his own ability to break through the Imperius enough—and if Draco pulled this off, it would help cement Harry's trust in him. Which was vital, since Draco needed to give him the portkey soon.

He raised his eyes, looking up at the earnest face before him, and smiled before pulling Harry in towards him. He tugged one hand free so that he could slip off the round, black glasses and throw them on the table behind them. Then he wrapped that free hand around Harry's back. He was surprised to feel something hard and metal there as well, and Harry reached behind him to pull out one of those Muggle weapons—a gun. Harry could see Draco's patronizing expression even without his glasses when they were this close, and he only offered a sheepish shrug as he slid the gun onto the table beside his glasses.

Then Draco pulled him in for a kiss, and Harry forgot about guns or anything but the boy in front of him. When he was with Draco like this, he could still forget about all the things that Voldemort and his Death Eaters had done to him for a short while. He could forget about the rest of the world outside this room. There was no world, no war, no past or future—only the present moment, and it was made up of heat and touch and racing pulses.

But then one of Draco's cool hands slipped under his shirt, pulling Harry closer against him, and the feeling of comfort evaporated. He broke away from Draco's embrace and stumbled a few feet away.

It took Draco a moment to gather his focus enough to glare, his arms suddenly empty and nothing against his body but the chilly dungeon air. He narrowed his eyes at the dark-haired boy who was now avoiding his gaze. They didn't usually get too handsy, but it wasn't like Draco had shoved a hand down the other boy's trousers. But maybe it had been too much too fast, after everything Harry had gone through? He almost opened his mouth to say something, though he didn't know if it would be an apology or a joke, when Harry glanced up at him with those remarkably bright eyes and then pulled his shirt off over his head.

_Well, never mind then._

His lips began to curl up into a smirk, but then it froze on his face when he saw Harry's chest.

Harry continued to stare straight into his face, but Draco couldn't yet lift his eyes away from the disfiguring scars. Directly above Harry's heart, someone had crudely cut a Dark Mark into the boy's pale, smooth skin. The scar was black as tar, and Draco remembered Pomfrey saying something about oil in his wounds, permanently marring his flesh with the foul pigments.

The mark was larger than Draco's hand and not just a mere outline but a complete replica of a Death Eater's sigil. Whole pieces of skin and flesh must have been carved out of the boy to make the tattoo, and it was jagged where he had obviously struggled. Running around the mark was a scrolling cursive script, far too neat to have been done by hand. _An engraving spell, creatively employed by Voldemort and his lackeys._ Of course, just because it was created by magic didn't mean it had hurt any less as it cut into the vulnerable flesh. The skin was still slightly red and inflamed around Voldemort's tender message: _Death comes for all._

Draco still didn't look up into Harry's face as the boy stood there with gooseflesh rising on his pale skin and his shoulders tensely hunched against both the cold and the fear of Draco's rejection. The Slytherin stepped across the few feet that separated him from the bare-chested boy and then shoved him. Harry stumbled back and caught the back of his knees on the edge of the bed, falling on top of the green coverlet with a shocked cry. Before he could struggle up, Draco had pushed him further into the giving mattress by crawling on top of him.

Harry stared up at the fully clothed blond, unsure about the Slytherin's expression without his glasses. Even with the aid of the correctional lenses, though, Harry might not have been able to interpret the strange light in Draco's eyes this time. Draco himself was looking into that infuriating, anxious, precious face and knowing irrevocably that he had screwed up in his plans—not that he would ever admit it. He thought briefly back to the meeting with the Dark Lord that past summer and heard himself once again saying, "You want Potter? I can get you Potter." He'd been a complete fool.

Draco brushed the black hair away from the scar on Harry's forehead and cradled the boy's head as he kissed the lightening-shaped mark once. He moved down to those inviting lips and breathed into his kiss, " _Thank you_." And the two words were enough for Harry to know that everything was all right. Draco wasn't horrified or disgusted. He understood that it had taken a leap of faith for Harry to reveal the ugly stain of hatred that Voldemort left on his body.

The Slytherin slid a hand, warmed by Harry's own body heat, down his sternum in the lightest of caresses. He could feel the muscles in Harry's stomach contract reflexively in response to his teasing touch, then the boy gasped sharply into their kiss when Draco moved his hand to place it directly over Harry's heart, slender fingers obscuring the horrifically cruel marks. He kissed Harry deeply, his tongue sweeping the other's mouth as if to make him clean, burning away the last echoes of Harry's screams. And he kept his hand against that warm chest, awed by the slight roughness of the scars and the feel of Harry's heart pounding quickly beneath his touch. After a while, he pulled himself away from Harry's lips and trailed kisses across the boy's face, nipping at the sensitive skin along his jaw. Harry groaned, and Draco was smiling as he moved on, leaving a line of hot, wet kisses down Harry's neck. The boy jumped violently when Draco ran his tongue over his scarred chest, his gasp much more satisfyingly audible this time. Almost a breathy little scream, Draco decided, to give himself due credit.

Harry was completely lost. They'd always been physical, but Draco hadn't ever been quite this forward. Not that Harry was complaining. In fact, he was too busy feeling the delicious lines that Draco's tongue was tracing across his bare skin to complain. He dragged the other boy back up to his mouth, kissing roughly and urgently even as he hooked a leg around Draco, pressing them tighter against one another but still not feeling close enough. Not nearly.

The Slytherin happily reclaimed Harry's kiss, his hands skating up the bare sides of that trim waist. Harry shuddered delightfully, and Draco wrapped his arms around the thin boy, his hold almost strong enough to bruise. It was a struggle to remember that they were supposed to be doing something that evening. That was why Harry was here in the first place. Draco tried to reason this out, but he was having difficulty since all his blood seemed to be rushing places other than his brain.

He pulled back once and managed to say, "Harry—" But the boy in question only seemed to take that as an encouragement, knotting his hands in Draco's hair and pulling him closer so he could bite his neck. Draco quickly forgot whatever he'd been about to say.

But after a few minutes, his brain clamored for attention again, and he managed to mumble, "No, Harry, we're supposed to be going—" even as his mouth was still pressed into Harry's hot skin. He wrenched himself away and stumbled back off the bed, losing his balance and landing on his arse on the floor. He was impressed (and more than a little pleased) when Harry slid off the bed and clambered on top of him on the hard floor. The boy nuzzled at his throat, and Draco shoved him back with two hands on his shoulders, exclaiming, "Potter!"

The Gryffindor smiled regretfully before he rolled off, sprawling next to Draco and trying to catch his breath, a thin sheen of sweat on his bare chest as it rose and fell. After a minute, he lifted himself up on one elbow and fumbled with one hand for the shirt he'd thrown to the floor earlier. "You're right. We're probably going to be late for the D.A. meeting." He was trying to keep himself from flushing now that he didn't have his face buried in Draco's face or neck. It suddenly seemed more relevant than ever before that they were in Draco's _bedroom_ , and he needed to really not be thinking about the large bed only feet away from them.

He pulled his shirt back on, the rough cotton scraping over suddenly sensitive skin. Draco had already retreated behind his usual composure and was smoothing back his fine silvery-blond hair. Harry watched and loved that ridiculous moonlight hair. Once it had been impossible to see it and not think of the senior Malfoy as well, but by now, Harry had a hundred new memories that had long ago crowded out Lucius Malfoy. It was only Draco's hair now: soft and silky, sometimes curling with sweat, sometimes tangled in his eyes, but mostly—like it was now—smooth and falling perfectly across his brow as Draco looked at him with those pale gray eyes.

Climbing to his feet, the Slytherin straightened any wrinkles, real or imagined, from the clothes he'd carefully picked out before Harry had arrived and managed to thoroughly distracted them both. He'd decided that, if he was going to be put under the microscope anyway by Harry's friends, he was at least going to look good while he was at it. Once he was satisfied that everything was in place, he held out a hand to Harry, still on the ground. His hand was accepted, and he pulled the shorter boy up to stand close to him, doing what he could to fix that messy black hair, brushing through the clinging strands and dutifully arranging them to cover the scar on Harry's forehead. Then he reached around Harry to grab the boy's glasses, so they could be slid into place as well. He didn't say anything to Harry picking up the gun and slipping into his pants, though he did raise an eyebrow in silent comment.

"If I meet your exacting standards?" Harry asked, voice wry. He started to turn away, not waiting for a response, but he was stopped by Draco pulling him back with a hand wrapped around his arm. The Slytherin looked at him for a long minute. Then he reached out and placed his right hand over the spot where Harry's shirt hid his new scar. Harry's breath caught as he felt an aftershock of the heart-pounding exhilaration from earlier.

His chest was tight already, and then Draco said, "It won't happen." Harry smiled, though the words left him somehow sad—as empty and blind as all his friends' were.

"Yes, it will. But not just yet." He laced his fingers with Draco's, so both their hands were stacked against his chest, and said, "Eventually he'll kill me—unless I can kill him first. No one else can do it."

Draco's fingers twitched against the material covering the scar, and he spoke fiercely, "Yes, someone else bloody well can. Stop playing the tragic hero, Potter."

Harry smiled, amused by his obstinance, but the certainty in his voice hadn't been shaken. "No, Draco. No one else can."

He sounded so sure of himself that Draco wondered for a second if there was something he didn't know. But there couldn't be. His plan would work. It had to work, damn it, even if he destroyed both of them and everything else in the process. He glanced at the trunk where his special portkey was securely locked away and hidden, even in his own private room. The plan _would_ work.

Harry pulled Draco's attention back by pinching the back of his hand. "Don't worry," he teased, "I'm sure I'll do be able to do it when the time comes. I've got to save the world, right? That's what heroes do." He purposefully pushed Draco's buttons, knowing how much the Slytherin was frustrated with all that Boy Who Lived crap—almost as much as he himself was. But the blond heard something more behind his words.

Draco kissed the boy on top of his shining black head and whispered into that hair, which smelled of Harry's undoubtedly cheap shampoo, "Right. That's what heroes do, Harry." And before he thought about it, his lips had found Harry's, and in moments they were gone again.

Harry maneuvered Draco back until he hit the edge of the bed. The Gryffindor tried to topple him onto the duvet—much the same as had been done to him—but Draco refused to fall back, knowing that they should be leaving. Without breaking their kiss, Harry swept Draco's legs out from under him and fell with him onto the bed.

Draco felt the air forced out of him as the other boy's weight landed on top of him. Exercising great strength, both in body and in will-power, he rolled the two of them over so that he was on top of Harry again. He held himself up on his arms and started to say firmly, "We can't—"

But Harry neatly knocked in his elbows so that Draco collapsed back on to his chest. The blond muttered into Harry's mouth, "I don't think this is how you're meant to be using your training."

Draco had to try again, and he held the boy's face firmly between his hands as he bent down to say softly into his ear, "I know this is fun, Harry, but we're supposed to be at that meeting. And, oh my gods, when did you learn to do that?" Harry had found his ear as well and licked around the edge of that pale shell. Draco was shocked voiceless as he felt the brief swath of warmth, before the cold air hit the wet skin and sent tingling repercussions down his spin. He shuddered and groaned into the Gryffindor's ear, "My god, _Harry_. Fuck the meeting."

But he got a hold of himself. He was Draco Malfoy, master of control and self-possession. He would rise to the occasion. In a manner of speaking. He slid his hand very low down Harry's stomach and then even lower, his fingers brushing over hard pelvic bones and in from there to suggest just where they could continue down to touch the boy in a way neither had dared yet. Harry jerked in surprise and went still beneath his hand, and Draco spoke to the suddenly attentive boy, "Harry. You've been planning this since you got back. We spent the last twenty-four hours preparing. We oughtn't miss it."

The combined shock of Draco's hand and the mention of his return—reminding him of what he had returned from—was just the right touch to cool Harry's ardor long enough for him to pull himself together. He pushed past Draco to sit up and said, "You're right. Of course. Hopefully we're not running far too late." Draco still had one leg straddling him, though he'd snatched his hand back as soon as Harry had moved. Harry visibly regained his control, and Draco was almost sad to see that wild, playful side of him get tucked away again.

 _Damn it, Malfoy,_ he told himself harshly, _you can shag like bunnies later. But_ now _you've got to go through with this and be sure he trusts you._ He slid his leg across Harry's lap, and the Gryffindor shuddered. Draco smiled, irrationally pleased that Harry couldn't cut himself off that completely after all. Buoyed by the thought, he rose from the bed in a smooth move and grabbed the Invisibility cloak from where he'd left it on the back of his chair. Twirling it in his deft hands, he gestured for Harry to join him. "Come on, Potter. Chop-chop."

He laughed at the glare that Harry shot him. The dark-haired boy was muttering as he pushed himself up, "Well, aren't we in a good mood all of a sudden."

Draco came up to him, tweaking his hair and clothes for the second time that night and a little surprised that Harry hadn't blown his arse off by rolling around on top of that gun. He smoothed his fingers over Harry's wrinkled brow and suggested, "Chalk it up to a bit of post-coital levity? Or pre-coital really." He gave Harry a wink, then practically skipped away, except that Malfoys never skipped. Just like they didn't wear Muggle jeans or snog their sworn enemies into oblivion.

Harry had a rather determined glint in his eye, so Draco slung on the Invisibility cloak and called out of the empty air, "Come _on_ , Potter." He left swiftly and knew that Harry would follow. As they hurried the long path to the seventh floor, Draco continued to make whispered little comments and to generally drive Harry to distraction. Once Harry actually tried to grab at the elusive blond, but he desisted when all the portraits gave him strange looks for flailing around at nothing.

By the time they got to the Room of Requirement, Harry was nearly panting with rage (among other things). Storming back and forth in front of the door the requisite seven times was enough to work off his excess energy, though, and Draco slipped off the cloak, handing it to Harry as they pulled open the door that had appeared before them.

It was quite the same as last time: Draco finding himself on the wrong end of a whole array of unfriendly wands. The difference was that this time he yanked the door back shut before anyone could hit him. Harry frowned at him and pushed the door open again. He held his hands up in warning and the assembled students obediently pointed their wands down, though they didn't put them away. They seemed to be waiting for an explanation from Harry, who they clearly thought was in charge. Draco had to resist the urge to laugh for a moment, but the urge died quickly. As soon as Harry started speaking, it became clear that this wasn't his Potter, who liked to whinge about Snape and nap in Draco's bed and leave lovebites on his neck. This was Harry Potter, all-around Golden Boy and hero of the Wizarding world.

"Sorry I'm late, everyone. And great speed—really, great reactions all around." He cleared his throat and glanced around the room. "Today is a very unusual lesson, and it took a bit of preparation to have everything ready."

Draco muttered loud enough that only Harry would hear him, "And how much of that preparation required rolling around on my bed?"

He could see Harry's throat work as the boy swallowed, although he couldn't be sure if it was to keep from laughing or to hide some other feeling. Harry ignored him and continued to address the small crowd before them. "Before we can get started, though, I'll need to cast some special wards."

There were a couple nervous looks among the students. "What for?" asked a fifth-year girl that Draco vaguely recognized, though he couldn't recall her name. _If they're suspicious already, wait till they hear what's coming next_ , he thought darkly. But he didn't say anything aloud as he drew out his own wand. Several of the other D.A. members raised their wands higher again when they saw the motion, but Draco only held the piece of yew out to Potter.

Harry took it gratefully, his smile tight with nerves. It never felt right to cast with another wizard's wand, especially with complicated spells, but he didn't have much choice. His own wand was nothing but memory now, and he wasn't going to try casting the wards wandless again and risk collapsing like he had done in the dungeons months ago. He'd practiced using Malfoy's wand that morning, and he was pretty sure he could pull this off. He raised the unfamiliar wand as he began to explain.

"To save us all from a lot of trouble. These wards will act as a type of bubble, sealing us off inside of Hogwarts' main wards, even though we're still physically within the castle. No one outside this room should be able to detect what is going on, and I trust all of you not to speak of what you see, since Malfoy and I are putting our arses on the line for this lesson."

He finished the complicated wand movement and muttered a few words too low for the others to catch, then everyone could feel an invisible _something_ rush past them, expanding to fill the whole room. Draco held his hand on Harry's back, where no one else could see it as they faced the uncertain crowd, and he could feel Harry relax into the touch, ever so slightly. His voice was still calm but it did seem to echo strangely in the warded room as he said, "That's it. All done." He turned slightly, and Draco let his hand fall back away as Harry returned his wand. "Thanks."

"Why'd you use Malfoy's wand?" This question came from a very suspicious sounding Hufflepuff, which only helped cement Draco's particular dislike of that house and its students.

Harry glanced at Draco once before meeting the Hufflepuff's eyes. "Because my wand was broken when I was away. I haven't been able to get a replacement yet, so I'm making do the best I can." 

There were several gasps at his announcement, but Harry paid them no mind as he stepped to the side, leaving Draco standing alone at the center of everyone's attention. "Now I'm sure all of you know who Draco Malfoy is," Harry said with a brief gesture in his direction. "I asked Malfoy to come here tonight with me, since I believe he and I are the only two present who have experience casting Dark magic."

There was even more shock and dismay after this statement, but Draco knew what was expected of him. He claimed the floor, just as they had planned the night before. "That's right. And if any of you hope to fight the Dark, you'd better know what you're up against."

Draco heard the whispering amongst the assembled defense group, and it was that annoying Zacharias Smith— _another_ Hufflepuff—who dared say aloud, "Why should we trust you to help us fight the Death Eaters? Your father was one of them."

Draco stared coldly at the other blond. "You shouldn't, unless you really are as stupid as you act. I have no intention of fighting any Death Eaters." He didn't blink as all the shuffling and muttering grew more agitated. Then he added, "But I have no intention of helping them either."

That silenced the dissent for a moment, and before they could recover from their surprise, Draco went on. "You all should know that I am risking a great deal more than just detention to be here. None of you can ever speak of my presence, let alone what we do here tonight. If you cannot accept these precepts in advance, knowing only that this lesson will involve Dark magic, then you must leave now." He looked over at Harry, who nodded carefully and made sure that everyone saw his agreement. The two of them turned back to the crowd with identical fixed expressions.

Harry gave a grim smile when no one ran for the door and said, "Good. Then you should know that we'll begin teaching you more about the Death Eaters and their methods starting tonight. I know about them because I've fought them. Malfoy knows about them because he had to grow up with them. What we will be demonstrating today is one of the Unforgivable curses they've often used in the past: the Imperius.

"To cast an Unforgivable, you must truly intend to cast them and know how to wield Dark magic. That is why I have Malfoy here. While I've cast Unforgivables myself in the past—" he ignored the outcry, "—a spell like the Imperius is far too dangerous to be casting with an unfamiliar wand, at the risk of permanently damaging someone's mind. So Malfoy will be demonstrating the curse on me, and we will teach you the ways to recognize someone under the curse." He looked around the silent room and said, "Excuse me if I can't trust one of you to cast the curse, when you don't have any experience with Dark magic and don't know what you're doing."

It was Neville Longbottom who cried out this time, "And you trust Malfoy?"

Harry smiled reassuringly at his friend. "Yes, I trust Malfoy. More than that, I trust myself and I trust the rest of you, if things should get out of hand."

"Oh, thanks, Potter," the blond muttered under his breath. Harry grinned as Draco made an impatient gesture for them to move on. He wasn't only nervous because the pack of good-doers were watching him like hungry wolves. He'd never actually cast the Imperius on another person before. As such, he was completely unprepared for the feelings that swamped him when he leveled his wand at Harry, gave his wand a precise twist, and intoned, " _Imperio_."

For the first few wild moments, he thought he'd been blinded. Then he realized he was seeing not only what his own eyes perceived, but what Harry was seeing as well. It was nauseating to watch his own face reeling from outside himself. But once he focused on Harry's eyes in front of him, the other boy's view of his own dazed expression slid away. He blinked and then he was seeing normally, but still without any explanation for the dizzying emotions that were preventing him from thinking clearly. Anxiety, shock, happiness, anticipation, fear, trust.

He looked at Harry, unconsciously searching for some support, and Harry stepped toward him to take his arm. _Did I do that? Are these Harry's emotions?_ He looked into that open face. It looked completely normal and yet something in Harry's expression (or perhaps something missing from Harry's expression) gave him a chill. He clenched his jaw and turned to face the D.A., getting control of both himself and of Harry. He could feel that the Gryffindor wasn't fighting his control and was grateful for that as he got a handle on making Harry do what he wanted.

Everyone else was watching with a horrified sort of fascination as Harry stepped away from Malfoy, looking just as he always did. Had the spell worked? Malfoy didn't look very confidence-inspiring. Was this what Dark magic took out of you? Or could it ironically be that Draco Malfoy wasn't actually any good at Dark magic—the one person you'd expect to take to it like a salamander to fire?

Harry started speaking. "Now, as you all can see, a victim of the Imperius curse may seem quite normal and rational. The Death Eaters will have an advantage with the Imperius because people tend to see what they want to see. If I look like Harry Potter, and I sound like Harry Potter, who's really going to argue?" As if to juxtapose the peculiar sight of Harry referring to himself in the third person, he reached up to straighten his glasses in a move that they had all seen Harry perform hundreds of times.

"If, however, I do not act or sound like Harry," the boy said as his posture suddenly improved, and he stood stiffly, doing an impressive job at looming for being one of the shorter people in the room. His face was as cold and sneering as Professor Snape's, and when he next spoke, his voice held the same darkly smooth and sinister tones, "Even Gryffindors and the rest of you subnormal miscreants should notice something amiss with your dear Mr. Potter." A couple of students shot fearful glances at Malfoy, not sure if they should laugh or cower in the face of Harry acting like their most dreaded professor.

"Pay attention!" snapped the Harry-Snape, his green eyes cold and empty as the emeralds they were sometimes likened to. He spoke slowly, seeming to savor the words, "Now, it is highly doubtful, but I am compelled to ask. Call it morbid curiosity. Do any of you thick-witted neandertals know how to recognize someone under Imperius?"

Harry dropped the Potion Master's affectations and added normally, "Of course, there is the small chance that a person might be able to break free from the curse. But it's a rare thing, so you wouldn't want to bet your life on it.

"Being the great Harry Potter, I can easily break free of the curse." Any of the students who had been thinking that Harry had indeed broken free had their hopes dispelled with that very un-Harry-like declaration. "I know it's not much, but since I'll never be as devastatingly handsome as Draco Malfoy, I've got to flaunt what I've got." Now there was no doubt who was putting the words in Harry's mouth. But as if to prove this ridiculous claim, Harry managed to slip around the curse—that was the only way Draco could describe it—without breaking the spell, long enough to turn to Malfoy with an outraged, "Hey!"

There was some scattered laughter, as if this were all part of some show. Draco was careful to keep his face blank so the others didn't realize how easily Harry had shrugged off the curse, brushing aside the blanket of power as if it were a flimsy cobweb. He frowned at the Gryffindor once, and they continued.

"As we have said and (I believe, more than aptly) demonstrated, you may suspect someone to be under the power of the Imperius if they are acting in a strange or unusual manner. The behavior of the victim is dependent on the skill and power of the caster. Draco Malfoy, of course, is not only stunningly handsome and a tactical genius, but a great wizard as well."

Harry paused and frowned in consternation, as if wondering to himself why he had just said that. Only Draco could feel the real Harry's glee in his mind, and he thought at the boy, _You twisted fuck, Potter._

Draco had Harry continue on, arriving at the important part of the lecture, and momentarily left all the dramatics aside. "Regardless of the caster, though, there are a few simple tests that can be performed without raising too much suspicion in the person you suspect. The first test is pain."

The Slytherin took over at this point, gesturing elaborately as he bowed. "Allow me to illustrate. Usually you'd want to choose something more subtle, something that could be made to look like an accident, but for the sake of demonstration..." He closed the few feet that separated him and his Harry-doll. Mentally, he could feel Harry retreating further into the spell, definitely not wanting to break free at this moment. He picked up the hand that was offered to him, briefly cradling those familiar digits, before he pulled a pocket knife from his trousers and quickly slashed open a wide gash across Harry's palm. The Gryffindor didn't even flinch, never moving an inch as blood welled up from the cut and started trickling down his hand and onto the ground, but everyone else was rather more expressive.

Ron leaped at Draco, not caring this time whether fighting would solve anything—simply wanting to take a little blood from Malfoy as he had taken blood from Harry. Draco moved quickly back and made a sweeping gesture at the room. Everyone else stopped moving. The magic didn't exactly make it impossible for them to move but rather helped convince their bodies that they didn't _really_ want to move anyway.

With the rest of the D.A. taken care of, Draco turned back to Harry and cast the simple healing charm that the boy had taught him for this occasion. The cut immediately knit itself back together, and there was nothing in those green eyes but mild confusion—no pain, no anger, no sense of betrayal. Draco kept his back to the others as he added a scouring charm to remove the blood from Harry's person and the floor, where it had started to form a little puddle. Then Draco stepped away, and it was time for Harry to resume his speech.

"If you'll all please calm down, Draco can remove the spell." After a brief but questioning look at all the glowering faces, the blonde did so, and the rest of the students stumbled a bit as they felt the effects of his hold skitter away. Harry grabbed their attention before the angry mob could reform against Malfoy.

"Everyone, please," he said earnestly, "Calm down. It really didn't hurt." But the students were suspicious now—after all, Malfoy was the one in charge of what Harry was saying. Just because it was a face they trusted didn't mean they believed that a knife plunging into your hand wouldn't pain you even a bit.

"This isn't just me being Potter the Stoic—though Lord knows I'm an insufferable martyr anyway." Catching the glare from Hermione, Draco decided to change Harry's direction a little. The boy started again, "I'm glad to see that not all of you will take my words at face value. You need to know better than to be swayed by a familiar face. But it truly is one of the effects of Imperius that the victims generally feel no pain. Imperius creates a euphoric state in the victim—which is what makes them so malleable—and even pain will not penetrate this 'high'."

Draco stepped forward again to introduce the next test. He told the Light wizards, "It's because of this same euphoria that we find our second test so effective." Draco held up his wand and said softly, " _Lumos_."

He could hear Hermione whisper to herself, "Of course," as he directed the light so that it wouldn't blind the rest of them and turned it instead on Harry. They could all see his unnaturally illuminated face, although not all of them understood immediately what seemed wrong with it. Hermione said aloud, "The pupils won't react properly."

Draco nodded brusquely. "The elation that Potter feels will cause the pupils to remain dilated, even with light stimuli."

He toned down his light and let Harry detail the last test as he readied himself. He tuned back in to hear the Gryffindor saying, "... one almost failsafe test. It can be considered Dark magic, but if you want to survive in a time of war, I'd suggest knowing it. The incantation is _Empyrium_. Draco will demonstrate."

The Slytherin held his wand steady on the boy, then flicked it straight up as he intoned clearly, " _Empyrium_." Nothing seemed to happen, although Malfoy gave a little start and hissed in pain. Everyone continued to stare. Smirking a bit, Draco said, "That's it, kids. This is a lesson in subtlety, though I know it's not your strong suit. No, it's all declaring of intentions and waving around swords, that's what your lot is all about.

"You don't necessarily want to alert anyone who might be watching that you know the victim is under Imperius. At times, it may even be more useful to leave a person under the Imperius, so that you might fool your enemies. As such, this spell isn't going to set off any fireworks. What it will do is send a shock through the caster, if the object of the spell really is under Imperius, and I suggest that you all try it to become familiar with the feeling."

There was quite a bit of shuffling, since most of them were unsure whether this was truly Dark magic and just what that would mean if they cast it. Finally, Ginny pushed her way forward through the crowd, and Draco graced her with an approving look. Feeling more confident, she pointed her wand firmly at Harry, then flicked it up as she'd seen Malfoy do and said experimentally, " _Empyrium_." She gave a little gasp at the electric shock that ran through her, crackling her vibrant red hair, then told the others, "It really does give you a shock!" As if those words were some reassurance, soon all the other D.A. members were stepping forward to give it a go.

Once everyone had gotten the chance to try and feel the spell's response for themselves, Draco turned back to Harry and simply said, " _Finite incatetum_." He felt suddenly empty as the distant buzz of Harry's emotions were cut off from him. The shorter boy stumbled, and Draco's arm naturally shot out to catch him. Green eyes rose to meet his, and he was glad to see them full of Harry again—as well as pride and hope and relief. And just that easily, Draco had passed the test.

The boys separated, each remembering themselves and their audience. Draco was ready to call it a day—this had been enough stress for one night—so he addressed the D.A. for what he hoped would be the last time. "Now, if I cast the spell again, when Harry is not under the power of the Imperius curse..." Smirking, he broke off to point his wand at Harry and say, " _Empyrium_." This time he got to watch as Harry jumped in surprise, and he said in a satisfied voice, "It's dear Harry who receives the shock."

Harry was rubbing his hands in consternation as he grumbled, "Dammit, Malfoy—that really is like an electric shock!" The other's laughed at him, having felt the same shock themselves. Then Harry looked up at the assembled students. "Any questions?"

Neville Longbottom spoke up hesitantly, "You said...or, well, Malfoy said that Empyrium spell could be considered Dark... Should we really be using it then?"

Harry gave his friend a reassuring nod. "I'd say so. When it could mean your life or the lives of others, sometimes you've got to use whatever means are necessary."

He was unsettled, though, when Zacharias said accusingly, "How do we know that you're really Potter again? Maybe this is just Malfoy trying to convince us to use Dark magic."

While Harry spluttered in indignation, Draco narrowed his eyes at the blond tart. Surprisingly, it was Hermione who came to the rescue. She'd recognized when Harry had thrown off the curse earlier and, knowing how much practice Harry had against the Imperius, she doubted that Malfoy would be able to keep Harry under if Harry didn't want to be. More than that, she just knew Harry.

She stepped forward and said in a carrying voice, "That is Harry Potter, in body and mind. I can still recognize my best friend." She glared at Zacharias and said dryly, "Unless any of you want to test the theory by sticking him with a knife perhaps?"

Before any retort could be made, she shocked all the students into silence by declaring, "And what's more, I'll undergo the Imperius myself."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, forgot to update yesterday. Two chapters today, I guess!

**Chapter 11**

HERMIONE STARED WARILY AT DRACO Malfoy. Her eyes slid to Harry without her meaning to, but there was little reassurance to be found there. He was watching them with an amused expression. Noticing her stare, he nodded slightly and mouthed, "Go on."

Breathing slowly through her nose, she stood next to Malfoy. She thought there was a gleam of something like triumph in his eye, but there was no chance to express any suspicions. She heard that hated voice fill her head with a single word: " _Imperio_."

Before anyone could question the spell's effectiveness, Hermione's attitude and posture changed in a complete 180º shift. She threw her long brown hair over her shoulders, golden highlights glinting in the flickering torchlight. Her chest jutted out as she rolled her hips forward confidently. One languorous hand rose to trail down her slender throat, before snagging her red and gold striped Gryffindor tie. She smoothly pulled the silky material free, letting the ends trail down her front as she moved to the first button on her crisp white shirt. Ron was too transfixed to be outraged on her behalf, and the sultry striptease continued in the thick silence of the room.

Suddenly, that come-hither expression faltered, and Hermione was back as she exclaimed in hurt outrage, " _Hey!_ " She started to fasten the few buttons that had come undone with shaking hands, her eyes filling as she glared at Malfoy.

The Slytherin looked as unrepentant as ever, radiating a sense of satisfaction. She wanted to slap him just as she had done when they were children. Then she saw Harry. Her best friend was not only unapologetic, but he was _grinning_ at her. She wanted to slap him as well, as the tear stung in her eyes. She was surprised then when he said in a gentle voice, "You did it, Hermione."

Hermione blinked, tears trembling on the edge of falling down her cheeks, and she asked unsurely, "What?"

He continued to grin as he told her, "You broke free from the Imperius curse." She realized what he had said, and she began to smile tremulously as well. He glanced over at Draco then said, "Now just remember that feeling. Once you've done it one time, it's easier to do it again." His eyes crinkled as he looked at her with that same pleased air that Malfoy had.

For a moment, Hermione looked at the two of them, side by side: Harry looking so open and bright, Malfoy looking so contained and still. One dark messy head and one sleek blond one, both watching her with paired expressions of satisfaction—satisfaction at _her_ achievement. And for the first time, she began to see how they might complement each other, instead of only seeing the unnaturalness of their relationship.

* * *

OF COURSE, HERMIONE'S SLIGHT BRUSH with understanding didn't prevent her from chewing out Harry later that night, together with Ron. The two of them formed a solid wall as they hedged Harry in. He stared up at them from the couch in the prefects' lounge, as Hermione used her best McGonagall voice to lecture him. "Harry, you can't just _do_ things like this, and without even telling us first! Using an Unforgivable within the castle? And letting _Malfoy_ cast Imperius on you? He can use Dark magic—isn't that proof enough that he isn't trustworthy?"

"I can use Dark magic, too, Hermione. Does that put me beyond your trust as well?"

Hermione scoffed in the face of his earnest declaration, saying, "Just because you know how to cast a Dark spell or two, it doesn't put you on the same level as Malfoy. You don't run around using Unforgivables on people!"

Harry didn't answer for longer than seemed natural, and Ron roused himself from reliving his memories of Hermione's performance at the D.A. meeting. The silence grew worse as it stretched on, finally shattered by Harry's whispered admission, "I've cast the Cruciatus curse on a person before."

Ron burst out disbelievingly, "You've what? When?"

"This is all _his_ fault," Hermione snapped, eyes flashing with anger. "I _knew_ it. He's—he's _poisoning_ you with his bad influence, Harry! And you're just letting him!"

She grabbed Harry by the shoulders as if she might shake him. She had never raised a hand against him before, so she was surprised when he grabbed her wrists in a painfully tight grasp. She gasped and tried to pull her hands free, wincing. Ron tugged at Harry's arm, insisting that he let go.

"The _one_ time that I cast the Cruciatus," Harry ground out, green eyes glittering, "was when Sirius died."

His friends both stilled. They'd never heard Harry speak of Sirius's death or what had happened in the Department of Mysteries the previous year. Harry let go of Hermione's smarting wrists and flopped back onto the couch, closing his eyes against their shell-shocked faces. "I used it on Bellatrix Lestrange after she killed him. Or at least I tried. I wanted her to suffer. I wanted to hear her scream in pain." He had his hands gripped together, fingertips pressed white by the pressure, as he looked up at them and said in an equally tight voice, "And that was long before I started dealing with Malfoy."

Ron dropped onto the couch next to his friend and said bluntly, "Come on, mate. If we're being honest here, let's be honest. You're not 'dealing' with Malfoy—you're shagging him."

Harry jerked around to stare at the redhead while his friend continued on as if he hadn't said anything particularly unusual, "But just because he's your boyfriend doesn't mean you should trust him to cast something like an Unforgivable on you. Not without even letting us know what you planned to do first."

Hermione's eyes were showing white all around as she stared at Ron with much the same disbelief. Harry leaned away, all the blood draining from his face as he choked out, "He—he's not my _boyfriend!_ "

Ron shrugged. "You _are_ shagging him though?"

Harry gaped soundlessly, turning to Hermione as though she could help. She was just as gobsmacked as he was. "No, no, I'm not—"

"But you want to, right?"

Harry floundered and stumbled over his words as he mumbled, "No! Well—I mean—that's not exactly..."

Luckily he was saved from trying to answer before he hyperventilated by Hermione hissing in shock: " _Ron!_ "

The ginger boy cleared his throat, then changed tactics. "Never mind, mate. The question isn't whether or not you're shagging the most annoying evil prat in the school. The question is whether or not it's a good idea. And it's really not."

He nodded to Hermione, passing on the torch or so it seemed to Harry. He thought through his horror, _What is this, a tag-team attack?_ Hermione gave herself a little shake, glared a moment longer at Ron, and then locked her eyes back on Harry with an intense look. "We've been worried, Harry. Ron saw you and—and Malfoy." Her eyes bored in Harry's. "And it was Malfoy, wasn't it? That you were talking about when you told me you had..."

She trailed off without finishing, but Harry knew exactly which conversation she was referring to. His instinct was to deny everything, to keep hiding whatever this was from his two best friends, but apparently it was too late for that because _apparently_ Ron had seen the two of them together. Harry squeezed his eyes shut. _When? How? Did other people know, too?_

"Do you really think you might be gay, Harry?"

He flinched at Hermione's direct question. It wasn't accusatory—only wary, as if she were feeling her way around something made out of sharp edges. "I—I don't know." He dropped his head into his hands, mumbling miserably. "I've never been attracted to any other guy before. It's—just Malfoy." He dragged in a breath. "It's just Malfoy."

"And you don't think that seems a little...suspect?"

Harry flinched, face scrunched up against the palms of his hands. He knew what Hermione was trying to get at. Of course she would assume it was some kind of Dark magic at work. She didn't know what it had been like. To her, from the outside, it might have seemed sudden and strange, but it had been agonizingly slow to Harry to feel things shifting, millimeter by aching millimeter, as the distance between them had grown tantalizingly closer, the looks lingering longer, the scuffles turning to softer touches, until eventually a hand might just rest on another body without any violent intent whatsoever. It hadn't been the sudden blinding intoxication of a potion or even the mindless euphoria of the Imperius curse, like he'd felt again that very night. It had been slow, exquisite, gutting torture to recognize what was happening between him and Draco over those months, all while trying to deny it with every conscious thought he'd had.

With his head down, he didn't see the look that Ron and Hermione exchanged but he could hear the anxiety in Hermione's voice when she went on. "Harry, you have to understand that...being gay would not be easy for you in the Wizarding world." Her voice grew smaller as she said sadly, "I wish I could tell you it wasn't the case, but magical society can be very judgmental."

Harry swallowed, still not looking up. He'd sort of guessed as much, though he'd been avoiding thinking about it. As long as no one knew, and as long as he and Malfoy didn't talk about what they were doing in secret, it had been possible to ignore reality. But now his best friends knew. He'd been seen. It was only a matter of time before more people found out.

Hermione's hand came to rest on his knee, soft and steady. "If you were to come out, if people were to find out, you'd—you'd want to be sure it was worth all the backlash you might face. But I have to ask you: do you really think Draco Malfoy is worth it?" Harry stiffened, eyes still trained on the floor between his feet. "You've been making a lot of rash decisions lately, Harry, and I'm not sure they've all been wise. You could be throwing away your future for someone you've spent half your life hating, someone who has been awful to you and your friends for years, someone who seems to encourage you to make bad choices and shirk your responsibilities and change who you've always been. Are you sure that Malfoy is the right choice?"

* * *

HERMIONE AND RON WERE LEFT sitting mutely on the couch after their intervention with Harry. Their friend had left a few minutes before, after listening to Hermione lecture about the Wizarding world's particular aversion to homosexuality. She was now eyeing Ron, and he could guess well enough what was coming.

"Ron..." She turned away from him, looking around the prefects' lounge with the ring of couches at its heart. "What just happened?"

The lanky boy threw a hand over his eyes as she watched. His voice came out muffled as he said, "I know we agreed earlier not to tell Harry that we know, but I didn't think we had much choice—"

He was interrupted by Hermione's saying, "No. I think I understand that. It was probably time to confront it. But what was your attitude back there? I mean, you _hate_ Malfoy. You always have. You were the one who was so annoyed when Harry was spending time with Malfoy, refusing to sit with us at dinners or anything. Then suddenly you're...joking about them sleeping together?"

Ron chewed on his cheek for a moment then tried to explain. "Look, I know it probably sounds weird but...but after I had some time to think about it, I realized the idea of Harry having some sort of romantic relationship with Malfoy actually bothers me less than him being friends with the bastard."

Hermione realized her mouth was hanging open and she snapped it shut, gesturing for him to continue his uniquely Ron-esque logic. He pushed himself up from the sofa and started pacing, his shoulders hunched as he said, "It's hard to put into words. It's like...if Harry actually ditched us just to be friends with Malfoy, it would seem more personal. It would mean that he liked to spend his time with the ferret, and more than that, it would mean that he liked it more than he liked being with _us_. Like we're missing something." He paused and searched Hermione's face hopefully for some sign of understanding. "Do you get it? Ditching us to go snog the git in the dungeons...well, that has nothing to do with you and me, really. That's just some sort of physical attraction. And I know how hard it can be to ignore attraction."

Ron had stopped pacing now and was looking at her significantly. She could feel her face glowing as she cleared her throat and tried to shift the subject. "Ah, right. I think that I understand. And—and you don't mind the possibility that Harry could be gay?"

She let out a silent sigh of relief when Ron finally pulled that demanding blue gaze off of her. He sounded a bit more uncomfortable as he said, "Not really, I guess. As long as I don't have to hear the details or see them kissing or anything. Again, that is." He smiled sheepishly, looking again like the eleven-year-old who had nearly gotten her killed by a mountain troll. "I sure was glad, though, when he said he'd never liked any other boy. I don't know what I would've done if he said he'd ever had those kind of feelings for me."

* * *

HARRY DIDN'T GET A CHANCE to talk to Draco privately until after classes the next day. His private lessons had been put on hold even after he'd been released from the hospital wing, due to his lack of a wand, since there was no way Dumbledore was willing to let Harry go to London to get a new one. And judging by how long it had taken to find a matching wand the first time, it was unlikely that Ollivander could or would be able to bring a replacement to Harry. At the moment, the teachers were still waffling over what to do about it, and the silver lining was that it had gotten Harry out of his extra lessons.

Of course, some of the lessons—such as his practice at wandless charms or his physical training with Lupin—could technically continue, but Harry was more than happy for the reprieve. So with no demands on his time except for the regularly hellish sixth form work, making up for the week he'd missed, revision for exams the following week, and perhaps saving the world at some point, Harry felt he could spare the time to run down to the dungeons.

Draco was seated at his table, stacks of books and notes organized in front of him and trailing over onto his extra chair and the stone floor. He looked harried by his visitor, but he did close the book he was using to research for his transfiguration exam, carefully marking his spot before he did. Harry sat on the edge of the bed, and the Slytherin turned in his chair to face him. "So how was the aftermath?"

Harry nodded to himself and mumbled, "Well, Hermione and Ron tried to rip me a new one."

After a brief diversion to explain the unfamiliar idiom and its meaning, Draco grimaced. "How charmingly Muggle. But was it really a surprise that your cronies got angry?"

That dark messy head ducked down as Harry seemed to address his shoes. "Their getting angry wasn't really a surprise, no. It was more shocking when they got on me about us."

Draco had been unmoving in his chair, but now a new kind of stillness seemed to come over him as he asked dangerously, "'Us'?"

Harry continued to address his beat-up Muggle trainers when he explained, "Yeah. They wanted to know what's really going on between us. What we are."

"If you tell me that you called me your 'boyfriend', I might just tie your balls in a knot."

The Gryffindor finally looked up so he could shoot a frown at Draco. "Nice image, Malfoy. But no, I couldn't really answer them." They both fell silent.

Draco looked longingly at his revision materials, then winced when he heard his guest aimlessly kicking his heels against the bed. Spinning back towards his desk, he grabbed up his book again as he spat, " _Fine_. You can call me your boyfriend, but only to your little minions. I don't want to see an announcement in the _Prophet_. Now, either _do something_ or leave. I need to study."

He heard instead of saw Harry get up and found his book plucked from his hand. Harry slipped a paper in to mark the spot for him, and as Draco turned to look up at the boy, he found Harry grinning. "Oh, I can think of something to do."

* * *

"DAMN IT ALL TO HELL!"

Draco glared spitefully at the happily chirping bird in front of him, which seemed insistent on staying a bird. Harry scooped the little creature up so that it scrambled on the back of his hand, chittering indignantly. Quick as a flash it darted forward to bite the Gryffindor on the thumb, and Draco felt a sudden wave of affection for the twittering little ball of fluff that they had conjured with a simple Avis spell.

He asked Harry in exasperation, "Is it not working because it's not a real bird?"

The boy was flicking his fingers at the bird, as it flittered about trying to bite the offensive digits. He sound distracted as he said, "No. Most the animals we use for practice in McGonagall's are conjured as well. She wouldn't want us blowing up real animals."

Growling as the bird fluttered up to perch on top his head, Draco asked shortly, "Then why won't the bloody thing turn into a lizard like it's supposed to?" He could feel the clawed feet pressing against his scalp and a curious tugging sensation... "Potter, is the infernal bird _chewing on my hair?_ " When Harry tried to suppress his obvious mirth and nodded, the Slytherin lost it. He grabbed the frail bundle of feathers and bones from his head and shook it.

Harry had to pry Draco's long fingers open to pluck out the battered bird before he suggested, "Well, let's try inter-species transfiguration first." Harry stroked the bird, and in his finger's wake the feathers were changing to a shiny golden sheen as the bird became plump and round. Within moments there was a golden snidget sitting on Harry's hand. It tried to dart away, but he caught it in the loose cage of his fingers. "Now you try it."

Running his hands through his violated hair, Draco heaved an aggrieved sigh. Transfiguration had never been his strong suit, and while practicing with Harry was probably good for his exam, it was also incredibly frustrating. Especially when Saint Potter seemed able to pull of simple transfigurations even without a wand. Draco held his own wand out and tried to transfigure the struggling bird in Harry's hand. To his own surprise, the snidget turned into a raven this time—just as he had intended it to. Harry nodded encouragingly and prompted him, "And now, the salamander." When he performed that switch as well, Harry told him to change the little lizard into a lit candle.

Draco looked at him in surprise. He'd had difficulty with just the cross-species transfiguration—to transfigure an animal into a physical object with multiple different elements would be much more difficult. But Harry seemed to believe he could do it, and it made Draco determined to prove that he could.

The Slytherin waved his wand again, and Harry now held a red candle in a silver base, burning merrily. He broke into a wide smile, exclaiming, "That's great, Malfoy!" Draco should have felt patronized, but he couldn't help a small flush of pride at Harry's praise. Then the Gryffindor held the candle between his two flat palms, and it elongated, changing shape and material. He now held a black metal tube that mystified Draco, until the boy clicked a button on the side and a beam of light shot out.

He raised his eyebrows, both in appreciation and in question, and Harry replied, "It's a torch. A Muggle thing—makes light with electricity."

Draco continued to watch Harry run through different transfigurations, slowly shifting the shape and form of the object in his hands to make several different Muggle objects. He hadn't realized the Gryffindor was so good at transfiguration, and to do it without a wand was positively frightful. Draco hadn't even seen McGonagall do transfiguration without a wand. He asked Harry about his unexpected gift for the magic.

"I don't know," the Gryffindor shrugged, a difficult task when one is laying propped up on one's elbows. "I guess it runs in the family. My dad was great at transfiguration."

Draco was not feeling vindictive but simply curious when he asked bluntly, "How do you know that?" It was hard to imagine Harry having parents. Of course, when you lived in a boarding school, it was easy to forget that most your classmates had parents and families and lives beyond the school's walls. But it was especially easy in Harry's case, since he never had any stories to tell about the parents he'd lost as an infant.

"Everyone always says so," Harry explained simply. Then he adopted a faintly sing-song voice as he quoted, "'Your dad was great at transfiguration and Quidditch. You know, you look just like him. Your mum was a genius at charms—you have her eyes.

"'They were so in love.'" He dropped that mocking tone and told Draco, "Except they weren't really. At least, not in the beginning. I saw it once, in someone else's memories. My mum hated my dad at first. Funny how those things work out."

He looked at Draco from the corner of his eye, then his attitude became flippant again. "You wanna see?" he asked lightly, as he pulled a thin, worn leather wallet from his back pocket. The damn thing looked like it would fall apart if Draco opened it, but he was took it, curious to see what Harry would keep on him and not about to let the chance slip by without seizing on it.

Prying open the ragged leather sides, Draco realized that Harry didn't keep a whole lot on him. There were some strange colored pieces of slick paper that were, if he remembered correctly, what Muggles used for currency. Harry also had a galleon and a couple of sickles tucked away in a small change pocket. Checking in the slots that might normally carry ID or credit cards, Draco slid free a folded piece of parchment. It was worn and creased, but when he opened it, there was nothing on it, not a spot of ink. Slightly perplexed, he also pulled out an old train ticket, which he recognized as being for Platform 9¾ at King's Cross, an empty candy wrapper, a small golden key, and a small paper with print on it. (Harry called it a 'movie ticket,' and he didn't ask for clarification.)

There were a series of empty, clear envelopes of a material that Draco couldn't really place. Seeing him finger the photo sleeves, Harry said, "It's vinyl, I think. Or some kind of plastic. Most everything is made of plastic these days." Nodding as if that meant anything, Draco flipped through the empty spots till he found the few pictures that had been placed in the back.

The first picture he came across was of a much younger Harry, with Granger and the Weasel. It looked like second year, back before Granger had got her teeth fixed (thanks to him, really). He had almost forgotten that infuriating toothy smile. Harry looked tiny and so very young. _Were we ever that young?_ he wondered. Flipping the sleeve over, he could see the writing on the back of the photo. "Hermione Granger, Harry Potter, and Ron Weasley—Gryffindor Common Room. Colin Creevey, 1992." He could vaguely recall that annoying Creevey brat waving around his camera in those days. Then he realized with a slight shock that Creevey had been killed on the train. There would be no more photos like this one.

The next photo was folded in half. It looked as if it had been crumpled up once and then smoothed flat again. Looking questioningly at Harry, he removed it from its 'plastic' housing. The writing on the back looked like Harry's, and it read, "Number 4 Privet Drive. Little Whinging, Surrey." He unfolded the mangled picture to see a suburban Muggle house. It looked exactly like the houses to either side of it: depressingly squat and square and plain. Posed in front of the house were a small family, consisting of an abnormally beefy and mustachioed bear of a man, a skinny and pinched looking woman, and what had to be the most unhealthily obese boy that Draco had ever seen. These must be Harry's relatives. Looking at the huge boy that had to be Harry's cousin, Draco thought to himself, _No wonder those hand-me-down clothes never fit._

From all accounts, Harry spared no particular fondness for his Muggle relatives, and so Draco felt compelled to ask, "Why do you keep a photo of _them?_ "

Harry took the photo and looked at it for a moment, before refolding it and saying simply, "To remember."

He handed the picture back, and Draco flipped to the last sleeve in the wallet. Like the previous photo, it was strangely unmoving, though it was much more noticeable in a close up photo like this. He'd thought the story that Muggle pictures didn't move was just a joke, but it sure looked to be true. It seemed bizarre, to see live people stuck in time like that, frozen in one single instant of their life. He rather liked it, he decided.

The picture was old, printed in monochrome and a bit grainy, but Draco began to recognize the familiar lines in some of the young faces. He asked Harry sharply, "Is that Professor Lupin? And...Sirius Black?!" Harry nodded, but he didn't choose to look at this picture. Focusing on the still figures, Draco saw easily which one must be James Potter. Harry really did resemble him in an uncanny manner. The eyes were clearly a darker color and seemed much less serious than Harry's, but other than that, their two faces were almost identical.

Draco said in a muted voice, "You do look just like him." Looking down at the young group of strangers, most of whom were dead by now, he muttered, "People say I look just like my father as well. I wonder if it's possible to ever just be yourself. Not just your father's son."

He refused to meet Harry's eyes until his, hmph, _boyfriend_ kissed him high on his cheek by his ear. Draco turned questioning grey eyes on him, and any protestations were swallowed by Harry's next kiss. His eyelids slid closed at that gentle touch, and he felt the soft breath of Harry's words against his skin. "You are not 'just' your father's son." He felt those lips on his jaw. "If you were, I couldn't do this." The hot swath of Harry's tongue. "Or this." A quick nip of teeth. "Or even this..."

Harry flicked him hard on the forehead, and Draco's eyes popped open again with an outraged, "Hey!" Harry was grinning, looking wholly unapologetic.

With a disgruntled little grumble, Draco turned back to the photo and blinked a couple times to clear his eyes. The sharp thwack of Harry's blow had caused his eyes to water. He looked down at the smiling young woman in the photo, who looked so unlike his own mother. Lily Potter had had long, gently waving hair and an oval face with a smooth symmetry. Physically, he could find none of her in Harry—though he knew from rumor that they had the same unbelievably green eyes. But they seemed to share some spark of passion—some streak of independence and, perhaps, solitude—somehow captured in the way the girl held herself slightly away from the others in the picture.

Draco thought he liked the young woman better than the cocky boy who looked so like and unlike the version lying next to him. James seemed more like the insufferable Gryffindor that Draco had long imagined Harry to be. He asked the boy next to him, "So she was good at charms?"

The youngest Potter looked up from his musing, his eyes finally darting over to the picture that Draco was pushing back into place. He told the Slytherin in a dry tone, "Yeah, but don't expect much help from me in the charms department. Guess I didn't inherit that one. She was real prodigy at it—it was her charm that saved me as a baby, after all." Draco looked at the seventeen year-old girl in the photo again. He'd never heard this before, never heard anything about why the Boy Who Lived had survived at all. It was just accepted that he had.

Harry seemed to be in the mood for sharing, which was quite unusual in and of itself. He took his wallet back and slid it into his pocket, lowering himself onto his elbows again. The Gryffindor was still lying on this stomach on top of the duvet, Draco sitting next to his hijacked bed with his chin resting atop his folded arms on the edge of the mattress. A ballpoint pen that had started its life as a conjured bird lay forgotten between them.

"It was some old charm. Ancient really. That's what made me research obsolete charms, like the ward around this room." Harry reached out as if plucking a string and, though it might have been his imagination, Draco thought he felt a slight vibration echo through the room. Harry pulled off his glasses and studied the round frames as he said, "She died for me, her love and sacrifice protecting me from the Killing Curse. It wasn't anything about me that stopped it."

The Slytherin was staring at him. That meant that everything Harry was, and the survival he was so famous for, was actually rooted in something that Harry had nothing to do with. He really was just a regular wizard, even if he was a rather gifted one. And he had gotten stuck with the task of saving the world. It was a horrifying thought.

Harry didn't see Draco's expression as he continued. "It's hard to imagine, you know? That were was this person who loved me so much that she would die for me—someone I don't even know. They weren't even that much older than we are now. Twenty-something, but they were still young..." Harry trailed off. He looked over at Draco, his glasses still twirling between his fingers, "You know, I used to be so jealous of the Weasleys."

It was a bit tangential, but this at least was something Draco could latch onto. He drawled, "Why on earth would anyone be jealous of the Weasleys? Unless, of course, you _want_ to be poor and ginger and sod at everything."

Harry frowned at him, and Draco stared rebelliously back in the face of that censure.

"You know, Ron is my really good friend. He didn't even dig in on me for being with you—at least, not now that he knows what's going on." That shut Draco up, who seemed boggled by the idea that Ronald Weasley had _accepted_ him, in any way, shape, or form. Harry said wistfully, "I was always jealous because the Weasleys were so...warm. They accepted me without question, just another one of their brood. I would've wanted a family like that." He looked seriously at the blond and asked him, "Didn't you ever wonder what it would be like?"

To his surprise, Malfoy bristled and snapped back with, "What _what_ would be like? To have a family? I had a family, Potter."

Not sure what had made the boy so defensive, Harry said apologetically, "No, I meant what it would be like to have _that_ kind of family—to have brothers, sisters, all that."

Draco exhaled slowly. "Oh," he said, a bit reluctantly, "Well, in that case, I had a brother."

Harry startled, staring at the unexpressive blond with wide eyes. He breathed, "What? But..."

The blond prompted him, repeating, "'But'?"

Harry slipped on the glasses that he'd been twiddling with and spread his hands over the duvet as he spoke, trying to smooth away the wrinkles though they came right back. "Well, in the Black Manor, there's this tapestry—it shows all the family tree. And, er, you're on there. As the only child listed under Narcissa Black."

Draco nodded, not seeming surprised by this information. "That's quite likely. It wasn't made public knowledge." He looked away, gaze fixed on the stone wall of the dungeon room rather than meeting Harry's curious eyes. "Failure isn't accepted in the Malfoy family, you see. And allowing your firstborn to die at birth was quite the failure."

"Firstborn?" Harry whispered, the word hardly more than a breath.

Draco flashed a bitter smile at him for just an instant, before looking back down at his own graceful hands, imagining them on someone else. "Yes, Alexander was the firstborn. The true Malfoy heir. What you see before you is only the imperfect copy that lived while he died." His fingers tightened around each other. "We were twins."

Harry couldn't say anything to that, as he reeled at the thought of _two_ Draco Malfoys running around and torturing him for the past five years. "And no one else knows?" he asked at last. He'd certainly never heard anything of the sort.

Draco shrugged again, elegant and careless. "There's a grave at the manor, but it was easy enough to keep hushed up. My mother was pregnant, and then she wasn't, and there still a child to show for it in the end. No reason to question the particulars."

There'd never been any talk outside the family. His mother had rarely spoken of Alexander, and she'd never had another child—nor had she ever allowed Draco to forget that she was disappointed that he was the only one she had. His father, on the other hand, had talked often of his firstborn, using the dead boy to criticize Draco as he grew. Alexander wouldn't have had such difficulty learning simple spells. Alexander wouldn't have cried over a split lip. Alexander wouldn't have retched the first time he'd seen someone tortured under the Cruciatus.

The constant comparisons could have made him hate the idea of his dead brother, but in Draco's imagination, he'd got his revenge instead. In his mind, Alexander had been everything that Lucius Malfoy would have hated: fun and caring and full of laughter. The heir he imagined would have defied their father and turned cartwheels across the manicured lawn of the manor and been nothing Lucius or Narcissa wanted. "When I was young, I would sometimes pretend he was still alive. Like an imaginary friend. A little blond boy who looked just like me but could be everything that I couldn't." He raised glittering silver eyes to Harry. "I don't know why I'm telling you any of this. It's stupid. It's all in the past." _Maybe I just wanted someone to know, in case I disappear, too. Or maybe I'm still jealous of a dead boy, wishing I could be free. Because sometimes, when it's only the two of us, I forget myself enough to feel like I could be._

Draco was smiling down at his hands, a wistful expression on his face that Harry had never seen before. "Draco," Harry said, dragging the blond from his thoughts as he tugged on his arm. "Come up here with me." Not arguing, Draco slithered up onto the bed and lay alongside Harry. He wondered if the Gryffindor was going to kiss him, but instead he felt those arms go around him and simply pull them together in a hug. Harry breathed into the crook of his neck, "Whatever happened in the past, it made you into who you are today. And heaven save us all, because somehow I've come to think that's a very good thing."

Draco laughed in surprise and squeezed the Gryffindor tight. "Oh, you _like_ me, Potter."

"Only sometimes," Harry grumbled back, though with a smile in his voice. "Don't push your luck."

Pinching Harry's waist, Draco purred, "I always knew you'd come around. It's hard not to resist such perfection, after all."

"Git."

"Your git."

"Yes," Harry agreed, not raising his face from where it was buried in Draco's shoulder. "My git."

And nothing else mattered. Whatever else Draco had lost, he had this—for however long he could hold onto it. For a couple more weeks, perhaps Draco could pretend he was free.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 12**

HARRY WOKE UP IN UNFAMILIAR darkness, his heartbeat racing. For those first few agonizing seconds, he was back in the Shrieking Shack again, back with Voldemort and the darkness and the pain. A thin keening sound erupted from him as his heart tried to claw up his throat. He thrashed in the covers that seemed to be choking him. Why couldn't he get free? Why was he here again? Hadn't he escaped?

The canopy was drawn back with a sudden wave of light, and Harry recoiled from that silver-haired figure standing over him.

"Harry—"

Draco tried to reach out to the boy but the Gryffindor was too caught up in his haunting dreams. He cried harshly, "Stay away from me, Malfoy!"

The Slytherin drew his hand back as he watched the boy, alarmed. Harry sat there shaking and breathing irregularly, and Draco pulled back more of the canopy around the four-poster bed, letting the light pour in on the scared boy. It seemed to calm him, and Draco took the chance to sit on the edge of the mattress. Only then did Harry seem to really recognize Malfoy's presence for the first time.

The blond was sitting still and silent, as he waited for some signal from his boyfriend. Harry realized what he'd said, and he held out one trembling hand in offering. "Sorry. Old habits die hard, I guess." Draco accepted his hand and his apology, but he still seemed unnaturally tense. Harry licked his lips and asked, "What time is it anyway?"

Draco continued to watch him in that measuring way he had, but his tone was neutral as he said, "Just past seven. You fell asleep, so I thought I'd let you rest a bit before kicking you out."

A faint smile at that, then Harry started to shuffle up and mumbled, "Well, I probably should be going. We've both got a lot of revision to do."

Draco nodded but didn't get up when Harry left. He watched the boy walk away through the enchanted stone wall. Maybe Harry still didn't trust him as much as he'd thought. Would he listen to Draco the one time it mattered? If he didn't, things might go so terribly wrong that Draco couldn't even allow himself to imagine the consequences. _Can this really work? There are too many variables—there should never be more than one unknown in a plan._

All his careful scheming was balanced on a knife edge and it could fall apart in an instant, because too much was dependent on other people's actions. Would Harry accept the gift? Would he really have the portkey on him when it was supposed to be activated? Would he be prepared to fight the Dark Lord? Would Voldemort really arrange things as he'd said he would?

It had been the longest shot from the start, and things had only grown more complicated the closer Draco got to Harry. But it was still the best chance he had—the only chance he had. So everything would hinge on where they each were during those few moments when the portkey was activated and Harry was sent unknowingly to his greatest enemy.

* * *

HARRY WAS ALSO QUESTIONING HIMSELF, though about very different things. Ron and Hermione hadn't said anything more about Malfoy when he'd come back to the common room, too caught up in their own revision for the exams bearing down on them all the next week. Ron was staring at his textbook in a way that made others around them wonder if the sixth year could sleep with his eyes open, while Hermione kept distracting herself from her own dutiful work by shooting concerned looks at Harry. The black-haired boy was flipping through his Defense Against the Dark Arts text aimlessly, not even noticing what he was looking at.

They'd finally done it. They'd put a sort of name to their relationship. It had felt easier when Draco was right there in front of him, distracting him with his sharp cheekbones and his heart-stopping smiles and his teasing mockery. But now that Harry was sitting in Gryffindor Tower, surrounded by other people, the labels didn't feel quite so simple.

Draco Malfoy was his boyfriend. Or _he_ was Draco Malfoy's boyfriend. What the hell did that mean? Hanging out with the boy (and making out with the boy) when no one else knew had been one thing. It was like the nightmares that haunted him—as long as no one else knew about them, they weren't so undeniable in the light of day, and what they implied about his state of mind wasn't quite as intimidating. But now he and Draco had sort of defined their relationship, and what was more, Hermione and Ron both knew about it. And if it started to be real, then it started to raise a lot of other questions.

The schoolyear wasn't going to last forever. But somehow they'd managed to make it through more than three months not hating each other. They still fought, and they insulted each other to no end, but so far none of that had done a thing to lessen the magnetic pull drawing them together. Yet they wouldn't be at Hogwarts forever. The winter holidays had been canceled, but what if the students were sent home after this school year ended, as they usually were? Would Draco go back to Malfoy Manor? Would he come back to school for their final year? Would he be the same person? What if there was no school to come back to by then?

And even if—even if somehow they made it through the last year and a half at Hogwarts and graduated together—what happened when they were no longer students? If the war was still on after they left school, Harry wasn't sure if he'd see Draco at all. Would he be off helping the Order of the Phoenix, something he knew Draco had no interest in doing? Or...or what if they both somehow survived, and the war was over, and real life finally began? Would they always have to keep it a secret that they were together? (Not that he could blame Draco if the other boy wanted to keep it a secret, once he'd heard Hermione's lecture about homophobia in the Wizarding world.) Did he even dare declare to the world that he was with _Draco Malfoy_?

Trying to focus on the book in front of him, Harry shook his head in disgust at his own thoughts. What was he thinking about—the future? He was sixteen. No need to be thinking life and death here, no one was asking for any commitments. But then again, Harry wasn't just a normal sixteen-year-old, and everything _was_ relatively life and death for him, especially when he was dating someone who'd lived his whole life on the other side. If Harry were normal, he would still have faced opposition for liking a boy, but none of this born-enemies, destined-to-fight shit. They could have been just two stupid boys who liked each other, not two heirs who were betraying everything they stood for simply by wanting to be together.

_Or maybe he's just betraying you._

Harry twitched at the unwelcome thought, as if someone had pressed a live wire to his skin. He tried to snatch it back, but he couldn't unthink this one sinister thought. The suspicions started to build in his heart, against his volition, so much harder to deny when they came from his own mind that when they'd come from Hermione's mouth. Did he know really for _sure_ where Malfoy stood? The boy claimed to be neutral, declaring that he wasn't interested in helping either side in the war and that he simply wanted to be left out of all of it. That certainly hadn't always been the case. Before his father had been arrested, Draco had seemed as keen as anyone to sign up as the next Death Eater in Voldemort's army. Had he really changed that much during the course of one summer?

Snape had said the Dark Lord didn't want the Malfoy boy, and the other Slytherins had all turned on him, and somehow Harry had jumped right from those two facts to assuming that it made Malfoy _safe_. But even if the Dark didn't seem to want Malfoy any longer, that didn't guarantee that Malfoy had ever stopped wanting to go to the Dark.

 _But that's ridiculous_ , Harry tried to convince himself. _Draco might not care about pointless rules or playing nice or whether a spell is considered Light or Dark, but he doesn't want to kill people. He doesn't want to have to torture and murder anyone. I'm sure of it._

It was unimaginable that Draco would lower himself to do those kinds of things unless he wanted to do them. Draco hated being told to do anything he didn't want to do, no matter how small or petty. So what could possibly make him agree to join the Death Eaters if he didn't believe in the things they did? Power? His family was still rich, he was good looking, his grades were nearly flawless, he was one of the best wizards in their year—he'd never been hurting for power or influence.

_Until this year. Until he was sent scurrying into a hidden tract of the dungeons, expelled from his house, stripped of his position on the Quidditch team, left friendless and without the future he'd thought he'd been guaranteed his whole life._

Struggling with the sudden tidal wave of doubts, Harry's unhelpful brain was running through a hundred memories from the past four months. He'd seen Draco in robes and cloaks, in his school uniform, in his Quidditch robes. He'd seen him in jeans and trousers and pajama pants, in cashmere jumpers and long-sleeved pullovers and dress shirts. But he couldn't remember ever seeing the Slytherin in short sleeves. He couldn't recall ever running his hands up those surely white forearms. There hadn't been anything but the touch of cloth above the thin wrists connected to those long, graceful hands he knew so well.

Harry tried to shut up all the polluting thoughts, locking them away inside himself where he wouldn't have to examine them again. But he couldn't shut off the niggling little voice that was even now asking him, _But have you ever checked his arms? Have you ever even checked, Harry Potter?_

* * *

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE WAS WAITING IN his round office, ignoring the chatter of the portraits that covered the domed walls and ceiling. He was expecting the young Malfoy heir, having sent a note to the boy that morning to summon him to the headmaster's office. The Slytherin boy was only one of the things that bothering Albus in regards to Harry Potter. The true irritant to the old man was his own flagging relationship with his unwilling young hero.

The headmaster felt a great aching pain when he thought of how much the Gryffindor had come to resent him. For the last four years of Harry's schooling, Albus had truly viewed the boy as he might a beloved grandson. He had admired the boy, feeling a surge of pride every time he saw James and Lily's son. He'd harbored some doubts about his decision to leave Harry with his Muggle relations, but in the end, he'd been gratified when he saw how well the boy had turned out in their care. Even if it hadn't all been pleasant, it had been for the best. He would just have to persevere once again. Just as he had then, Albus would have to make the best decisions for Harry and for their world, even if the boy didn't see it as such himself.

A sudden silence fell as the past headmasters and headmistresses felt an approaching visitor. Dumbledore looked up expectantly as the Malfoy boy walked into his sanctuary. He folded his hands on the desk in front of him, smiling as he welcomed the Slytherin. "Ah, Mr. Malfoy, I'm so glad that you could make it this evening." Draco shot him a faintly disbelieving look as he sat himself before the impressive oak desk. It was his fourth time in Dumbledore's office this year, surely a new record for him. He wasn't sure just what was wanted of him this time, but he could guess that it might well have something to do with Harry, since they'd been fairly obvious recently in how they spent their time together.

"As always, I'm thrilled by your interest in me," Draco drawled. He thought he had kept his voice from being too dry, but Dumbledore's glare told him otherwise.

The old man watched with eyes like blue flames. "And I am touched by your sincerity, as usual, Mr. Malfoy. However, I did not ask you here tonight to discuss your manners—or lack thereof."

Draco leaned back in his chair, his jaw tilted up confidently as he watched the professor through hooded eyes. "Then _why_ , pray tell, did you ask me here? Oh, I know. Are you finally interested in doing something about the way I've been barred from Slytherin house?"

The headmaster took a candy from a small tray on his desk, then offered the bowl to Draco. The boy politely declined and kept waiting for the old man to talk. Sucking on the toffee he'd popped in his mouth, Dumbledore said, "I'm afraid my role keeps me too busy to always notice all the latest happenings around the castle, but if you're having any trouble with your housemates, of course I'd invite you to take it up with your head of house."

 _Of course you would,_ Draco thought. He kept his face unmoved as he felt Dumbledore's probing glance move over him, the touch of Legilimency as gentle as a moth's wing. Draco wasn't very practiced in that art himself, but he was a fantastic Occlumens. He never would have survived his father or Snape or Voldemort if he weren't. He threw up an easy screen of boredom and misery and petty resentment, inviting Dumbledore to think he was nothing more than small-hearted bully looking for the nearest victim to lash out at. Protecting himself too well would only backfire, as the old man would be suspicious if he couldn't get any read at all from Draco.

"Then why am I here? Am I in some sort of trouble?" he asked aloud, an edge to the question as if he found it offensive for the headmaster and head of the Wizengamot to summon him personally.

Not bothering to dance around the issue as he might have with one of his students, the ones that truly belonged to him and believed in him, Dumbledore spoke flatly, "To be blunt, Mr. Malfoy, I've found myself curious about your relationship with Harry Potter. I've heard from a number of sources that the two of you are spending a good deal of time together lately. Harry is a very busy young man, with many weighty expectations placed upon him, and I do wonder about why you are spending so much time with him and about your sudden interest in befriending him, after what has seemed to be years of unrelenting animosity."

Draco shrugged. "People change."

"Are you suggesting that you have changed, Mr. Malfoy?"

The professor was probing him again, and Draco let a memory rise to the surface of his thoughts: the image of his father being led off to prison after his sentencing by the Wizengamot. But he gave Dumbledore a brittle smile, projecting a false defiance as if he were deflecting from the glimpse of vulnerability. "Maybe it's Potter who has changed. Or maybe he never was who you thought he was."

Dumbledore gave his toffee a good suck. "No, I know the sort of person Harry is. He is a kind young man who would reach out a helping hand to anyone who seemed truly in need of it." He tried a benign look on the blond. "Just as Hogwarts always offers help to those who need it. If you are in need of help, Mr. Malfoy, you will find it here in the castle." Folding his hands atop his desk, Dumbledore smiled among the whirring and pinging of the dozens of metal contraptions decorating his office. "You only need ask for it."

A hint of true irritation flare through Draco's petulant act. "I don't need your help."

"Are you so certain of that?" The older wizard looked him up and down, making Draco feel every inch the defiant, foolish sixteen-year-old child he was presenting himself to be. "It can be awfully lonely on your own, Mr. Malfoy. And much harder to find your own path without anyone to help point out the way. I worry that you haven't yet found yourself, my boy, and I wouldn't want you to get lost in the Dark."

Draco stared the headmaster full in the eye for several long moments. "Have you ever read Thomas Wolfe, Professor?" he asked all of a sudden. "An American, I know," he scoffed with a proper amount of derision, "but he does have some good observations. I've always been fond of a certain line he penned about the wisdom of old men—about how, when they say that some young man has not yet 'found himself,' they are really saying that he has not yet lost himself in the same way they themselves have done."

Dumbledore's eyes snapped with anger as he watched the bold young Slytherin over the top of his glasses. The boy was nowhere near as ready as Severus had been when the young Death Eater had come to Albus, heartbroken and hopeless and ready to switch sides. Dumbledore would keep trying to lay the groundwork, but he didn't see himself turning Malfoy to their side anytime soon. Perhaps he wouldn't ever. Severus had had his love for Lily to redeem him, but Draco Malfoy had never shown any indication of loving anyone but himself. Perhaps the best Albus could hope for now was that Harry's friends could recapture his attention soon from this unfortunate influence.

Suddenly feeling all his 115 years, Albus dismissed the boy with a wave of his hand. "I hope that you know what you're doing, Mr. Malfoy. For your sake."

The icy blond smiled, though Dumbledore could only speculate what caused that cold expression, and told him as he headed out the door, "Here's to hoping."

* * *

HARRY WAS SNEAKING DOWN TO the dungeons at nearly three in the morning. He felt foolish and unreasonable, but not nearly enough so to prevent him from going. And where was he going? Well, he was headed for Draco's room down under the Dark Forest. To sneak up on his sleeping boyfriend, because he couldn't quell the doubt that was keeping him up tossing and turning, and he couldn't just leave it alone.

He held the Marauder's Map in one hand and a handful of heatless bluebell flames in the other. If he'd had his Invisibility cloak, he probably would have felt more secure creeping through the castle without any fear of getting caught, but the map was nearly as good at helping him avoid any teachers or anyone else. The flames were the same as those that Hermione had long been in the habit of using. She'd taught him the charm years ago, although he'd had to modify the charm a bit to cast it without a wand.

Thinking of his practical, determined friend helped Harry's resolve. She would never leave her questions unanswered. If Hermione was all about one thing, it was thorough research.

The blue fire cast a dim, stygian glow, the eerie light spilling down the hall and only hinting at the doorways and decorations that loomed out of the gloom. It reminded him of the Department of Mysteries, and that certainly wasn't helping Harry to ignore all his fears as he crept along the quiet school at night. He watched the map carefully in the flickering light, but the halls were deserted. Even Filch seemed to be abed. Draco was in his room (or in the blank space of the map where his room ought to be) and didn't appear to be moving.

Draco was certainly ambitious and spent a lot of time studying, but Harry felt confident that even the Slytherin had probably given up on his revision for the night. Not so confident that he wasn't sneaking silently to the tapestry-hidden room, though. When he got there, he pushed the door open with a soft breath of power, his wards opening warmly to him, and the room beyond the doorway was dark, except for the faint moonlight that was streaming through the false windows. Harry stepped inside, bringing his handful of fire with him. The door silently slid home.

He could see no movement from the bed as he set the map down on the polished black desk. Harry made almost no noise as he padded across the room—he was only dressed in his striped Gryffindor pajamas, with no shoes to scrape across the untrustworthy stone, though the floor was painfully cold beneath his feet. His breath stopped, heart was pounding even harder in response, and as he drew closer to the bed, Harry saw his boyfriend sleeping in the dark.

Draco was lying on his side, facing Harry and the edge of the bed. His silvery fair hair looked white as bone in the cool light—the waves that decorated the pillow appearing shockingly pale against its dark fabric. His down-swept lashes, though equally pale, cast shadows over his high cheekbones. Of course the boy wouldn't be wearing regular school-issue pajamas but seemed to be wearing black silk that pooled around his slender body. Along with the dark bedclothes, the effect was even more unreal: all that luminous skin nestled in a cocoon of black, like the moon peeking out of a cloudy velvet night.

The Gryffindor was distracted from his purpose as he let his gaze rake over the sleeping boy. Draco looked younger at rest than he ever did awake. No matter how relaxed and open he might act around Harry, it was nothing compared to this defenseless face that no one was supposed to see. Harry noticed the movement under those papery lids and wondered if Draco was dreaming. Exhaling heavily, the Slytherin shifted and rolled onto his back, his arm still flung across his body.

Harry edged onto the bed next to Draco, lowering himself onto the mattress by slow degrees so he wouldn't jostle the sleeping blond. Unable to resist the urge, he sifted his fingers through the silvery strands that clung to the pillow, marveling at their almost liquid fineness. After watching Draco's slim chest rise under the weight of a few shallow breaths, Harry let himself drag his thumb across the giving lips parted slightly in sleep. The Slytherin sighed, and the feeling of that breath ruffling over his hand sent chills down Harry's spine. He knew he was allowing himself to be distracted. This might be his only chance, but he was also afraid to take it. Whether he was right or wrong, Draco would be furious once he realized what Harry was about. Right now, Harry could still pretend that he'd only snuck down to steal a kiss and whatever followed. But that wasn't why he was here.

He set his little bundle of bluebell flames down on the bedside table, and then gently took a hold of Draco's left wrist. He had stopped breathing again, and he watched his other hand move to push up the dark sleeve of the pajama top. His movements seemed ponderous and heavy, as if he were moving underwater. The flickering blue light, like that at the bottom of the lake, brought back the jeering of the merpeople—when a hand clamped around his wrist. But this hand wasn't grey and rough like the creatures under the Great Lake. It was as cool and as ungiving as marble.

His gaze flew upward to Draco's face, and when he saw those silvery grey eyes watching him, blank and empty, he knew he'd been wrong. Not about his doubts, but about thinking that Draco would be furious. He wouldn't just be furious. He would hate Harry. It wouldn't matter who was right.

Harry saw that in the Slytherin's eyes and felt as if he were suffocating. "I have to know," he whispered, and before Draco could react, he shoved up that silk sleeve which flowed like dark water: a sinister curtain revealing what Harry had most dreaded. Because branded into that perfect Malfoy skin was Voldemort's mark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco's heavy-handed quotation was inspired by a timely reading from Thomas Wolfe back when I was first writing this. Fairly unbelievable that Draco would be familiar with an American novelist, but I still like it too much to cut it entirely. Between this and the Whitman references, apparently Draco just has a taste for American Muggle writers...?
> 
> From _The Web and the Rock_ (1937):  
> "What is it that a young man wants? Where is the central source of that wild fury that boils up in him, that goads and drives and lashes him, that explodes his energies and strews his purpose to the wind of a thousand instant and chaotic impulses? The older and more assured people of the world, who have learned to work without waste and error, think they know the reason for the chaos and confusion of a young man’s life. They have learned the thing at hand, and learned to follow their single way through all the million shifting hues and tones and cadences of living, to thread neatly with unperturbed heart their single thread through that huge labyrinth of shifting forms and intersecting energies that make up life—and they say, therefore, that the reason for a young man’s confusion, lack of purpose, and erratic living is because he has not 'found himself.'
> 
> In this, the older and more certain people may be right by their own standard of appraisal, but, in this judgment on the life of youth, they have really pronounced a sterner and more cruel judgment on themselves. For when they say that some young man has not yet 'found himself,' they are really saying that he has not lost himself as they. For men will often say that they have 'found themselves' when they have really been worn down into a groove by the brutal and compulsive force of circumstance. They speak of their life’s salvation when all that they have done is blindly follow through an accidental way. They have forgotten their life’s purpose, and all the faith, hope, and immortal confidence of a boy. They have forgotten that below all the apparent waste, loss, chaos, and disorder of a young man’s life there is really a central purpose and a single faith which they themselves have lost."


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get a bit naughty in this chapter. Skip ahead to the next series of asterisks if you find it's too much for your tastes!

**Chapter 13**

HARRY'S HANDS WERE STILL HOLDING Draco, though his grip had tightened into something painful, as he shook his head, trying not to acknowledge the prickling in his eyes. He blinked furiously and thought, _Why? Why is it a shock that he's a Death Eater? Of course, Draco Malfoy is a Death Eater. Why should it hurt?_

" _Why?_ "

Harry realized he'd spoken the word aloud, though even he wasn't certain of what he was asking:

_Why did you have to be a Death Eater?_

_Why did you have to make me care about you?_

_Why did you have to let me find out?_

Draco was frozen, horrified and confused by what was going on. When he'd opened his eyes to find Harry leaning over him with a hold on his wrist, he hadn't been awake enough to realize what was happening. Draco wasn't one of those people who woke up well, instantly alert and ready for anything. As the fog of sleep leeched away, Draco was still trying to make sense of the situation.

It was the middle of the night, and Harry was on his bed with him. Harry had grabbed his left arm and pulled up the sleeve that covered it. Harry looked wretched and was still staring at the mark branded on his arm. Harry was looking up at him, his green eyes brimming with tears. Draco searched those eyes and consciousness filtered into layers building up to the horrifying truth. He felt a matching panic rise in his eyes. _He knows. Harry knows._

The Gryffindor jerked away, trying to leave, trying to hide from the truth that was glaring at him in the form of a black grinning skull marring the smooth skin of his boyfriend's arm. But Draco still held the wrist of his right hand, and though his grip hadn't helped him to hide the Mark, it did give him enough leverage to keep Harry from running. The Gryffindor struggled toward the door, fighting to wrench his arm free even while he didn't dare to look back at the boy on the bed, and so Draco pulled sharply on his arm. It upset Harry's balance and sent him tumbling back onto the mattress with the blond.

Harry struggled even more desperately as he fought to get free. He fought like something wild, all thoughts of any training abandoning him as he struck at the boy who was holding him tightly and trying to keep both arms around him as he writhed. He kicked out at Draco, tearing at his clothes and his hair and anything he could get a hold of. But the blond didn't fight back, he only tried to restrain Harry as the boy wept. Harry didn't even notice that he was sobbing as he attacked the young Death Eater.

Draco could feel the salt of tears stinging in the cuts that Harry leaving on him. He realized in shock that some of the tears were his own. _I can't believe I'm still so weak. I've taken worse beatings without crying._ But it had to be the pain of Harry's blows that had made him cry.

Eventually the struggling slowed, weakened, came to a stop. Blinking cautiously, Draco tried to take stock again as he loosened his hold, his shaking hands only resting on Harry's back now instead of being clamped around it. The Boy Who Lived was wrung out of anger for the moment, but that only left tears. He lay, limp and unmoving, on top of the Slytherin. And he wept, clutching Draco's top in tight handfuls. Draco slowly began to understand the desperate words gasped out between those harsh sobs: "What's wrong with me? Oh god, _what's wrong with me?_ " Draco's arms tightened again around the quaking boy, their mingled tears burning the abrasions that littered his face and throat.

Harry felt lost as he hid his face from the boy who was probably going to kill him before Voldemort even got the chance to. Everything that had happened and all the stress of the last few months had finally overwhelmed him. The prophecy's weight, the gaping hole of Sirius' death, the lack of faith in Dumbledore, the absence of his murdered classmates, the trauma of his abduction, his fragile trust in Draco. All of it culminating in this final betrayal of the one thing that had kept him going throughout it all.

Crying was supposed to be cathartic, but Harry didn't feel any better for the burning pain. And still he couldn't stop the ugly gasping that was wracking his body. Draco was kissing his face, trying to stop the flow of tears. Too tired and miserable to even push himself away, Harry spoke directly into Draco's throat, tasting the saltiness of his skin. He was finally able to voice some of the betrayal, asking desperately, " _Why,_ Draco? Why are you with him? Why are you doing this to me?"

Draco pulled the unresisting Gryffindor up to him and smoothed his palms over that damp skin, pushing the black hair back off Harry's face. The Gryffindor had lost his glasses at some point, and who knew where they were among the bedclothes now. Draco let out a shaken laugh, before he murmured into Harry's mouth, "Must everything always be about you, Potter?"

Harry echoed his strangled laugh and said in a choked voice, "No, Draco. Don't make me like you when I hate you. _I hate you_." Saying it aloud seemed to help Harry's resolve, and he tried to slide away from the other boy, finding it impossible when Draco only held onto him more desperately.

"Harry," he said pleadingly, "Please. You have to understand, Harry. You have to..."

It wasn't so much what Draco was saying as the tone he was saying it in which stopped Harry. He recognized the thickness in that voice, though he never would have expected it from Malfoy. Glancing up to the Slytherin's face only confirmed the tears that made his eyes more silvery than usual and leaked into his fine hair. Draco Malfoy was _crying._

Harry couldn't understand how he could feel so wretched and betrayed by finding out the truth, and yet still be moved by seeing the self-contained Slytherin weep. He didn't understand it, but he couldn't deny it. With a fleeting thought of _Fuck it_ , Harry kissed Malfoy as he had been kissed— trying to erase those tears and what they meant. He forgot about the Dark Mark on Draco's arm, forgot about the similar mark that disfigured his own chest, and everything but the sensations in the dark of the blue-lit night.

Draco kissed him back with the same fierce desperation, feeling relief sweep through him. They clung tightly to each other—both likely knowing that they could never really reach each other across the deep river that their tears had created. And despite it all, hands roved over bodies in an effort to leave their stain behind, as if their marks could erase the Dark Mark that each boy wore. Draco had been mostly freed from his sheets by all their struggles, but now he kicked free of the last of the bedclothes. He laced an arm around Harry's waist to bring them together without anything else in the way. Without ever breaking the contact of their lips, Draco rolled the two of them over so that he straddled Harry's narrow hips. The black-haired boy gasped as he felt their twin erections pressed together through the flimsy barrier of their pajamas. He'd never felt anything like that delicious pressure, and he ground his hips up against Draco even as he took the other boy in a deep, searching kiss.

Draco leaned up for a moment, his white hair falling across his face and nearly obscuring his silver eyes. He seemed to be having a bit of trouble breathing as he leaned on Harry, his hands smoothing over the hard chest below him. His gaze flicked up to meet Harry's eyes as he began to unbutton the boy's top with shaking hands. He was trying to be slow and gentle, but Harry seemed to have different ideas.

The Gryffindor pushed away those thin white hands and tried to sit up, his muscles shifting under Draco's hands and unintentionally forcing their groins harder together. Draco's fingers dug convulsively into the boy's tense abdomen, and Harry let out a thin hiss of air at the sensation of the other boy pressed against him, before he finally succeeded in yanking his shirt over his head. With a quick swivel of his hips, he tumbled on top of Draco and tore the silky black top from him as well.

It was the first time Harry had ever had so much access to Draco's body, and he took full advantage of it. He lowered himself to that milky, smooth chest, lavishing the soft skin with his attention. Catching one flat nipple with his teeth, he gave it a slight tug and was rewarded by Draco squirming beneath him, the Slytherin's breath catching in his throat. Draco allowed him his play and—though he ignored that one marred forearm—Harry left hardly any other inch of that newly-bared skin untouched.

Draco lasted as long as he could under that sweet torture, before taking control again. He swept the shorter boy into his arms and tumbled him over once again, now nearly diagonal across the bed. (Neither noticed.) Adopting a similar posture as before, Draco lay atop his lover, nearly straddling the boy, and Harry could feel that insistent hardness demanding an answer from him—one he knew he couldn't hold off much longer.

He arched up to bite Draco none too gently on the shoulder, sucking on that tender curve between the neck and collarbone. Harry wrapped his arms around the other's neck to pull the blond down to him. The smooth skin of their chests rubbed together, and Draco could feel the roughness of Harry's newest scar as it slid over his own skin.

The longer their heated struggles continued, the more their hips took on a rocking pattern on their own. As they strained against each other, Harry could feel that hot, liquid sensation in the center of him coalescing into a tight ball that was threatening to break him into pieces when it finally exploded. Tongues thrust into mouths in an echo of other possibilities, and Draco slipped a hand between their straining bodies. He marveled at the taut muscles of Harry's stomach, before he finally pushed his thin fingers into the waistband of the Gryffindor's pajamas.

His hand delved briefly through a tangle of soft, wiry hair before he found what he was looking for. Harry cried out his name as Draco daringly wrapped his hand around the other boy, the exclamation caught in their searing kiss, and Harry was gone in just moments, convulsing under the Slytherin. Draco took those frantic cries into his mouth, and it didn't take more than a few more seconds for the blond to follow Harry down into that sweet abyss.

* * *

DRACO CAME BACK TO HIMSELF in a series of fragmented sensations. He could feel his pulse thundering raggedly through his body, throbbing at his temples and wrists. He realized that it was Harry's heart pounding against his chest like a frightened animal's. As they lay pressed limply together, Draco also realized that they had made a warm, damp mess of themselves, and the sticky fluids were rapidly cooling.

Draco made the effort to move his loose muscles, clumsily stripping off Harry's striped cotton pajama bottoms and using the dry bits to clean the boy off with limbs that felt strangely weak. He did the same with his own silky black pajama bottoms, before hurling the clothes across the room. Eyes roaming over Harry's thin, athletic frame in the faint blue light, he couldn't help trailing a series of kisses down that flat stomach, his breath cooling the quick wetness and ruffling inky black hair. Harry groaned at the sensation and began to pull himself together, struggling weakly to sit up.

Draco wasn't willing to let him go, though, and he wrapped his arms around the Gryffindor, pulling them over to the untouched side of the bed. He loosed one arm and dragged the heavy duvet over them both, trying not to fixate on the very distracting feel of Harry's damp skin pressing against all of his. It was easier once he felt the fine trembling that had overtaken the boy. When the first hot tear hit his skin, he pulled back slightly to look into Harry's face. The dark-haired boy had his eyes tightly closed and his face turned away from Draco. The tears seeped slowly from those clasped lids.

"No, Harry..." His whispered plea made a brief sob escape the boy in his arms, and Draco said brokenly, "Harry, please. Please..."

He didn't know what he was asking, but maybe Harry understood regardless because he accepted the soft kiss Draco pressed against his temple without trying to pull away. Draco felt the other boy go limp as he collapsed into the exhaustion that had been fraying at the edges of him—and the post-coital sleep was more like unconsciousness than a doze, after all the emotional trauma of the night.

Draco looked down at that sleeping face on his chest, tears still clinging to the heavy black lashes. The Boy Who Lived was more vulnerable than anyone had ever been allowed to see. No wand or even clothes to protect him, no effort in his slumber to cover his frightening scars or to hide the frail nudity of his underfed body.

Draco held him now, but could long he keep him? Long enough to send him straight to Voldemort? Beyond even the next few hours? Eventually Harry would wake up, and he would either hate him even more or want a repeat performance. Draco knew which scenario he was hoping for. He also knew that there was nothing he could do to change the boy's mind now, and so he took what might be his last chance to wrap himself around the warmth of Harry's body. He whispered into that dark hair, " _Ne pars pas,_ " reverting to the language of his childhood as he fell asleep in that uncertain embrace.

* * *

DRACO WOKE UP ALONE THE next morning, wondering why things felt so very wrong. Then he noticed his utter lack of clothing, and he thought in confusion, _But I never sleep in the nude._ Sitting up in his bed, he felt a dozen different aches pull at the motion, and the memories of the night before slammed into him as he groaned. He could feel now the stinging pain of the scratches and bites that Harry had given him (some in the fight, some in what had followed). His head jerked up, and he immediately spotted the boy sitting in one of his ebony chairs, which the Gryffindor had dragged around to face him, a few feet from the bedside.

Harry was wearing a pair of heavy black slacks and a dark, charcoal-grey turtleneck, both of which had started their lives in Draco's closet. He was even wearing a pair of the Slytherin's socks, and if he was wearing anything else more personal of his, Draco decided he didn't need to know. He hadn't ever seen Harry in really decent clothes, and they looked good on him, perhaps even better than they looked on the blond himself. The infamous green eyes looked painfully bright against all that fine, monochromatic cloth.

Draco shifted slightly, painfully reminded of his own nudity. The sheet was riding low on his hips, revealing the faint lines of his pelvic bones and an almost invisible trail of silky white hair. He made no move to pull the sheet higher, not willing to let his nervousness show. He didn't say a word, waiting for Harry to set the tone. He watched as Harry's normally wide eyes narrowed on the tattoo that marred his left forearm, and he remembered all too well how hideous the Dark Mark looked in the bright sunlight.

Harry got up without a word and started for the door. _No, you can't..._

"Harry!" He didn't have any control over the weak, croaking voice that couldn't have possibly come from his mouth—his mouth that had been all over that body the previous night. As his (ex?) boyfriend turned to look at him, Draco did something that he hadn't done for years. He intentionally let his mask drop completely.

His body hummed with tension, lean muscles taut as he threw away his pride and self-control. His face was open and showed all of his anguish, fear, and hopelessness. His anger at the situation, that he couldn't let anyone else see, was laid bare. His uncertainty about what he was doing, his feelings for Harry (whatever they might be)—it was all there. And the raw longing and painful loneliness that even he didn't know was in him, though Harry could see it painted on his face.

Knowing it was a bad idea, and knowing that nothing could change, Harry walked back to the chair and sat heavily. Now there was a glimpse of something else in that naked face. There was a touch of hope and—perhaps because of that daring hope—there was a new rush of fear. Harry watched the play of emotions thrum through the naked blond's body and waited for Draco to start explaining.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 14**

DRACO BLINKED NERVOUSLY AS HE was subjected to that merciless glare. He had to look away, and now that he had let down his walls, he couldn't keep the stain of a blush off his pale skin. Harry watched in fascination as that rosy glow spread down his throat and chest. "Do you mind if I put something on?" Draco muttered, sliding his legs off the bed. Harry had an unreasonable urge to say that yes, he did mind. Instead he gave a brusque nod, averting his eyes as Draco walked past him completely nude.

In the few minutes that Draco had free from Harry's scrutiny, he scrambled for the right mix of lies and truth that might still save him. He said quietly as he pulled up a pair of light chinos, "Harry, I need to know what you're planning to do with this information."

Harry turned in his chair to see Draco's narrow back as the boy pulled a long-sleeved white shirt over his fair head, covering a faint web of old scars that laced over his white skin. He spoke coldly, leaving that glimpse of scars for another day, "No need to worry, Malfoy. I'm not going running to the Aurors. Not just yet."

Seeing how ungiving the Gryffindor would be, Draco decided he was going to have to tell him as much of the truth as he dared. Hopefully not so much as to doom him if Voldemort managed to pick any of it out of Harry's head. He sat back on the edge of the bed, pushing his sleeves up around his elbows, as if to purposefully highlight the Dark Mark on his forearm. The real reason was that—though Harry probably hadn't ever noticed in their years of glaring at each other—Draco had always had the habit to roll up his sleeves, even in the frigid dungeons. He'd hated having tight cuffs buttoned around his wrists since he was a boy, and shoving the sleeves of his shirt up was a tiny freedom he'd been denied for months. Only one of the many freedoms he'd lost. He rubbed his wrists worryingly as he began to speak.

Voldemort came during the summer.

No, it wasn't the first time I'd met the Dark Lord.

The first time? After our fourth year. That's why I was even angrier with you last year.

Because...oh, I don't know. Because you'd brought him back. Because you could fight him. Because you were there.

Right. Back to the present. My father was in the new prison, and so I was expected to be the Malfoy representative. I wasn't given any choice in the matter.

Oh, yes, Potter. I had _heaps_ of options. I suppose I could have owled Dumbledore to come rescue me after I'd already been branded. Then I could've become another one of his convenient tools, serving two masters I hated instead of one. Or maybe I should've just waited and hoped you would eventually save me, like everyone else seems to do. I'm sure Draco Malfoy was at the top of the list of people you would've wanted to help.

I'm sorry. You're right. It isn't fair. But you have to appreciate that _I had no choice._

Snape? Snape and I have...a sort of understanding.

He told you that?

Oh, don't look so guilt-stricken—I already suspected that Snape was a spy. Just as he suspected that I was a...Death Eater. A sort of catch-22, as the Muggles might say.

Right. The understanding. I can't speak for certain regarding Snape, or how much exactly he knows, but I know he was led to believe that the Dark Lord had turned me away. He would've thought he was telling you the truth when he said that. They were all led to believe that, so that the other Slytherins would turn on me, and he went along with it just as the others did. None of them needed much encouragement to cast me aside.

Well, at some point I suppose he grew suspicious. He hinted to me that he thought I was working for Voldemort, and I hinted right back that I suspected him of being loyal to Dumbledore. We've been at an impasse ever since.

Why? Why do you think? Because it would make me look vulnerable, of course. Harmless. Poor Malfoy, rejected by everyone who'd ever known him. How threatening is a defanged snake? 

Then what would you have from me?

You know I can't tell you that.

You _know_ what he can do, as well as anyone. You know he can summon me back to his side at any time, and I can't resist the call. I can't escape him or the punishment I'd face if he ever found I'd told you even this much.

No, of course not. I didn't want any of this.

Oh, for Salazar's pity... Potter, I didn't mean it to sound like that. I wanted _this._ I wanted you. I still do. It's the only thing that's kept me sane throughout this shit task I was given.

...Yes, I was given a task.

Yes, it involved you.

No, it didn't involve seducing you. I thought of that as a bit of a perk myself.

I can't tell you that.

No.

_No._

Harry, that knowledge would cost me my life. I'm not ready to die for your peace of mind.

Wait, wait, that is not "all there is to it then." Gods, I'll tell you anything I can!

Like...like I'm sorry? I didn't plan for you to find out like this. To hurt you. I don't wish you any harm. But if he finds out that I've been discovered, that I'm no longer useful as his little decoy, then I'll probably be killed, and something even worse will be planned for you—by someone a lot less sympathetic towards your existence than I am. You might hate me right now, but I'm the only one in there who wants to keep you alive.

"That's not enough, Draco. That's not nearly enough."

The Slytherin ran his hands through his hair, venting his frustration upon the silvery blond silk. He asked desperately, "So that's really it then? I don't what more I can say, Harry. I've already told you enough to get myself killed ten times over. I've laid myself on the line and let you see past all my artifice and all my masks. Did I do it all for nothing—is there still no hope?"

Harry stood again and smoothed down his borrowed pants. He sounded bleak as he told Draco, "If there's hope, I can't see it."

* * *

HARRY WALKED INTO THE GRYFFINDOR common room and silence spread around him like he had cast a charm. He truly believe for a moment that they all knew somehow what he had done last night with Draco Malfoy, Death Eater extraordinaire. Then he heard Lavender exclaim, "My god, Harry. I don't know what you've gotten into, but for goodness sake, keep it coming." He didn't really understand, but all the girls in the room were staring at him in shocked admiration, like he had a gold bar stuffed down his pants.

Hermione and Ginny hurried over to him, and each grabbed one of his arms to drag him up to his dorm room. They were followed by catcalls and some rather explicit comments. As soon as the door shut behind them and they three of them were alone, Harry found himself facing two of his closest girl friends, both of whom were looking him up and down unashamedly. Hermione breathed, "Harry. I hate to admit it, but Lavender was right. Where did you get the GQ clothes? You look _great_." She backed up slightly and reassured him, "Not that you don't usually, but...my word, Dudley's castoffs can't compare to _this_."

Harry flopped down on his bed and was immediately yanked back up by the girls, who insisted that he could not wrinkle The Clothes. He sighed in frustration, beginning to understand that all the girls' reactions were because he was wearing Draco's expensive things. He said without thinking, "Oh, for fuck's sake—they're Malfoy's clothes, okay?"

Ginny blinked in surprise. She'd never known boys to swap clothes the way that girls sometimes did, and she had six older brothers. She turned to look at Hermione, though, when the brunette asked in a suspicious tone, "And just what happened to _your_ clothes, Harry?"

Sitting more carefully this time, Harry eased himself down onto the edge of his mattress and told her, "It wasn't like that. I just went...to ask him about something."

Hermione said sarcastically, "And asking him somehow involved you spending the night and losing your own clothes?"

Ginny was watching this interplay as her eyebrows crept higher and higher, wanting to be certain she was jumping to the right conclusions before she said anything. She'd known that the boys were surprisingly close friends, after seeing Malfoy's reaction to Harry's kidnapping. But were they actually quite a bit more than friends? And Hermione knew about it?

Before any more incriminating statements could come out, Ron burst into the room. "There you are, Harry! You were supposed to be in the changing rooms a half hour ago! I was coming to look for Ginny in case she needed to step in for you—the game against Slytherin starts in less than an hour!"

Harry blinked in surprise. _Quidditch_...

Hermione was telling Ron in a low voice, "It seems Harry's been playing a bit of one-on-one with a certain Slytherin."

"Ugh! Christ, Hermione," Harry broke out, "it wasn't like that!"

Ron stared at them both. "Okay, I really would've been happier without that mental image," he muttered.

He was ignored, though, as Hermione snapped, "Oh, then do explain why you're wearing his clothes. I'd love to hear it."

It seemed she'd pushed too hard this time, though, and Harry told her flatly, "Please leave, Hermione. I need to get changed for the game." Hermione opened her mouth, but Ron dragged her out of the room. Ginny waffled a moment, since Harry hadn't said anything to her specifically. But then he started to pull off his borrowed shirt and so she made to turn away—when what she saw under the shirt stopped her in her tracks.

"Harry..."

Her voice was as awed as all the earlier comments, but this time it was horror that made her exclamation so soft. He realized that he'd revealed his newest scar to her and sighed, pulling the shirt the rest of the way off over his head. He reached into his wardrobe and pulled out the scarlet shirt that was worn under the Gryffindor team robes. Slipping his arms into the sleeves, he let the shirt ride up his shoulders as he turned his head back to Ginny, saying, "Another gift from Voldemort." Before she could respond, he had yanked the shirt on and was starting on his pants.

Ginny's cheeks burned as she turned, facing away from Harry as he stripped. She didn't think he was doing it on purpose. Maybe he didn't care too much about getting undressed in front of girl, all things considered. Looking at the four-poster bed opposite her, she started mildly, "So, Malfoy..."

Harry brushed past her, fully clothed again and draping his Quidditch robes over an arm as he went. He told her in a similar tone as that he'd used on Hermione, "Is none of your business. Neither is my relationship with him. And I'd appreciate you not mentioning anything you saw in here either."

If he was expecting some kind of huff like Hermione would have given, he would be disappointed. Ginny shrugged and agreed, "Of course not. Your secret to tell, not mine."

When she didn't get angry, Harry felt foolish for the way he'd snapped at her. It certainly wasn't Ginny's fault that he'd...well. He said in a more apologetic tone, "Right. Thanks, Gin." He glanced towards the door and back at her before saying, "They're waiting for me, so..." And Ginny waved him ahead with wishes of good luck for the match, gears already turning madly in her head.

* * *

HARRY WATCHED THE SNITCH IN a desultory manner. He'd seen it within the first fifteen minutes of the match and had spent the last hour distracting the new Slytherin Seeker from noticing it and allowing his own team to rack up points. Normally Slytherin and Gryffindor were evenly enough matched that this wouldn't be a very smart strategy, but with Crabbe and Goyle replaced by two brand new Beaters, the Slytherin Chasers were being annihilated.

And of course Draco wasn't there to cheat outrageously and win back some points for his house. Grimacing, Harry tried to wipe the thought of Malfoy from his mind. He wasn't ready to think about the Slytherin. Not about any of it. Not about what they'd done, not about what Draco was, not about what Harry himself was supposed do about it. Surely he was supposed to go tell Dumbledore. A year or two ago, he would've already done it by now, and not just because he'd still hated Malfoy then. But now—now he didn't know what he wanted to do, but he wasn't sure he wanted to see Draco's fate decided by Dumbledore alone. Once Dumbledore found out about this, any choices would be completely out of Harry's hands. There would be no taking it back.

He might have trusted Lupin to listen to him, to not immediately summon an Auror but to take the time to discuss things with him. But he didn't believe that Lupin wouldn't still end up taking it to Dumbledore as soon as Harry walked away. And Ron and Hermione—well, this would only justify every one of their worst suspicions.

_Because their suspicions were right. And you were wrong. You were so wrong about everything._

And still Harry wasn't immediately owling the Aurors office. And he definitely wasn't thinking about the things they'd done in Draco's bed even after he'd found out the truth, or what it mean that he'd allowed that to happen even though he'd known what Malfoy really was. Not just allowed it. Instigated it. No, he was refusing to think about Malfoy at all. He was just here playing Quidditch against a Slytherin Seeker who was definitely not Malfoy, and that was fine.

As he scanned the field again, he caught a glimpse of unmistakable pale hair. It was joined by a fiery auburn head. Ginny, although she was the reserve Seeker and should have been down on the team bench, wasn't even wearing her Quidditch robes. Instead, she was leaning on one of the stadium's open stairwells with Draco. They seemed to be watching the game together, and Harry saw the girl point at him. Draco turned to look, and Harry imagined he could feel the weight of that gaze from across the stands.

Suddenly tired of playing, Harry darted after the snitch. He snagged the fluttering little ball before the Seeker that Slytherin had chosen to replace Malfoy had even realized what was happening. The inexperienced idiot had never had a chance. Harry glanced up at the stairwell again, but his two spectators couldn't be seen any longer. They'd either left or tucked themselves back into the shadows. Feeling unreasonably irritated, Harry headed for the ground. The rest of the players hadn't noticed that the game was over, but they would figure it out soon enough. Harry didn't wait for them before he headed to the showers, handing Hooch the struggling snitch as he passed her by.

* * *

TWO DAYS LATER, HARRY WAS WALKING through the crisp snow that had covered Hogwarts' grounds. He had thought some cool, fresh air would make him feel better, and Hermione and Ron had agreed wholeheartedly. They were both sick of him moping around Gryffindor Tower as he'd been doing for days. He had been ignoring Draco in their shared classes, but it hadn't made him feel any better. It was only making him feel worse.

Every hour that passed only gave his guilt time to grow, knowing that he was letting a Death Eater wander the castle. Malfoy had claimed he didn't want to be a Death Eater, claimed he'd had no choice, but who could believe that? Even if it were true, he'd also said he couldn't refuse to do whatever Voldemort ordered him to do. And Harry was just standing back and letting it happen. Worst of all, he still found his eyes seeking out the Slytherin across every classroom or crowded hall. Not because Harry was suspicious and wanted to see what the boy might be doing, but because he simply wanted to see his face. Because it simply felt wrong to do anything else any longer.

He thought tiredly, _Someone important must hate me._ The dour sentiment had been prompted by the sight of a painfully familiar pale head in Greenhouse Six. Harry had come out on a miserable December day, it was colder than hell, and the last person he should have ever run into out on the empty grounds was Malfoy. And there was god damn Draco Malfoy in Greenhouse Six, Professor Sprout's private greenhouse for advanced projects. The Slytherin had his face down and was turned away from Harry as he dug into the warm, moist dirt of his pots, mixing in water and potions by hand. Imagine that: a Malfoy getting his own hands dirty. And not in the metaphorical sense.

Sprout bustled into view, and the two seemed to discuss whatever plant it was that Draco was working on, probably the boy's final project for the term. Harry stood there staring until the Slytherin stepped out of the greenhouse to wash his hands under the spigot that stood outside, bare cold iron amidst the snow. Draco startled when he spotted Harry, his gray eyes quickly going shuttered and wary.

He looked scruffy and vulnerable, and Harry thought wildly that he had never wanted to kiss him more. He was a Death Eater, he'd admitted that Voldemort had ordered him to do something to Harry, and Harry still wanted to crowd the other boy up against the glass wall of the greenhouse and shove his cold hands up under his robes, even if Sprout were only feet away through the hazy windows. There was something so wrong with him.

The Slytherin schooled his expression into something blank as he turned on the spigot, wincing as the frigid water spilled over his fingertips. "Hello, Harry. What're you doing out on a hellishly cold day like this? Just enjoying the seasonable weather?" Once his fingers were clean, he carefully rolled his cuffs once, just enough so that he could wash away the dirt up to his wrists. He made sure the cloth didn't hike up an inch higher than it needed to. How had Harry never noticed before?

"Something like that," Harry said, standing stiffly in the snowy field. "What're you doing with Sprout?"

Draco continued to rinse his milky skin clean as he explained, "I've been doing independent study with the professor because of my...difficulties with the Slytherins."

Harry took a step closer, too close for either of their comfort. "I didn't think you liked Herbology that much."

The blond got a private little smile on his face, and his voice was almost normal as he confided, "Ever since that bloody Mandrake bit me in second year, I found a particular fondness for Herbology."

The Gryffindor's lips curved at the memory, and there was brief, tentative moment before Sprout came out and interrupted. "Draco, outstanding work with those snapdragons. They'll prove invaluable, I'm sure. Let's just wrap up, shall we?" The professor smiled at Harry. "Sorry, Potter, I'll have to steal him back for a few more minutes."

She swept back inside, and Draco left his wrists under the icy water for a couple more moments of silence. He finally straightened and twisted the spigot off with a screech of rusty metal. "Well, you heard the woman."

He turned away but found himself stopped by Harry's hand on his arm. The boy was grabbing him right where the Dark Mark was hidden. Harry seemed to realize it as well and let go in a hurry. Then he reached up and wiped a smudge of dirt from Draco's jaw before he seemed to catch himself, snatching his hand back and shoving it in his own pocket. "You had a little something..."

Draco shifted, turning back to Harry, a hint of a question in his eyes. And Harry couldn't answer it. He spun on his heels and fled, leaving Draco standing alone in the snow.

* * *

HERMIONE AND RON WERE WORRIED about Harry. They sat side-by-side on the boy's bed, and Hermione said, in a tone that implied it had been said many times already, "He doesn't seem to be doing any better, does he?"

Ron looked up from the Quidditch magazine he had open on his lap and said tiredly, "No, he really doesn't. You don't think they've...split up, do you?"

Hermione lay back on the bed. "Oh, I don't know anymore. I mean, Malfoy has stopped coming to dinner, full stop. So has Harry, for that matter."

Their experiment in inter-house relations has died quickly without its chief instigators. Even Luna and Ginny had each gone back to their respective tables. Ron looked back at the article on the Chudley Cannons, and his ears burned red as he said, "Well. Sometimes boys do stupid things when they really like someone."

Hermione looked up at him and asked coolly, "Oh? Like what?"

His face was bright red, obscuring his freckles, as he put his hand on top of hers and said, "Like—like arguing instead of daring to say how they feel."

Her breath caught in her throat as she looked up at the ginger boy. Neither dared look away as they slowly leaned in towards each other. Hermione's eyes slid shut, and she felt Ron's breath on her face when he murmured her name. Then Harry burst into the room like a dark cloud.

The dark-haired boy's bad mood fell apart as quickly as if someone had flipped a switch. "What are you two doing on my bed?" He noticed their hands still tangled together, and his face faltered for a moment before he managed to conjure up a pained smile for his two best friends. He said, "Hey, good on you two." But it didn't quite have the desired effect.

Ron dropped Hermione's hand as if it was a bubotuber. "Oh, no—it's not..."

Hermione turned a frosty glare on him and asked, "Oh, isn't it?"

While Ron was babbling in a panic and Hermione was shooting icy daggers from her eyes, Harry took off his cloak and noticed that Dobby had laundered and returned his pajamas from...that night. His mood dropped off again, and even through her own anger, Hermione noticed the sudden wave of pain that washed over Harry's face. She waved at Ron to shut him up and asked their friend, "Can't you tell us what happened, Harry?"

Harry only shook his head. He still couldn't tell them Draco was a Death Eater. And without telling them, there was no way to explain why he felt so damn conflicted about still wanting the Slytherin. He wanted to be able to tell Draco about his day, about catching the snitch, about the disaster that had been his Care of Magical Creatures exam. He wanted to quiz him on charms and kiss him breathless and mess up his hair when he wasn't paying attention. Even now he wanted to run back out of the castle, find Draco again in the snow, and drag him away somewhere that Voldemort could never find either of them again.

But such a place didn't exist. And so how could he justify feeling the way he did for a Death Eater who might laugh with him over dinner one night and be bowing to Voldemort the next? He couldn't. And if he told Ron and Hermione what he'd learned, he knew what they would say: stay the hell away, and turn Malfoy over to the authorities at once.

Ron broke the long silence by asking, "So were you the dumper or the dumpee? My guess is dumpee, given the way you're moping around."

Hermione looked aghast at Ron's frankness, but Harry only stiffened before he said, "Neither exactly. We had a...misunderstanding." He couldn't say anything more to his best friends, so he only muttered, "I learned some things I didn't know before. I'm still trying to come to terms with them."

Hermione bit her lip and then blurted out, "Harry, if you don't mind, I'd like to try a spell on you. But to do it, I'd need you to cast a bubble ward—like you did at the D.A. meeting before. It's not Dark magic, but it could raise some eyebrows if anyone noticed I was casting it."

Harry trusted Hermione more than he trusted almost anyone, but he still had to ask, "Just what is this spell supposed to do?"

Hermione looked up at him through a sheaf of thick curls. "Well, it shows magical influences on a person. Such as charms or potions..."

The boy understood at once what she was getting at, though he surprised her by not getting angry for once. "And you still think Malfoy might've put some charm or curse on me?" She had the grace to look embarrassed, but Harry only shrugged. "I would need to borrow you wand."

She handed it over at once, and Harry gave it a few practice swings, trying to get a feel for it, then he cast the same spell he'd used for their Imperius lesson—when he'd stood there and willingly let a Death Eater cast Imperius on him. Maybe Hermione wasn't wrong to be suspicious. God, he was an idiot. "There," he said, handing the wand back to her. "Do whatever you need to."

The bright young witch needed no further encouragement. She stepped back slightly, twirled her wand, and said, " _Aposiopesis_."

The kaleidoscope of light that followed her intonation nearly blinded all three of them. Hermione stood there blinking as she heard Harry ask, nearly obscured by the glowing colors surrounding his body and sounding decidedly weary, "Okay, now I know that nothing ever happens normally for me, but I have to ask: Hermione, is this normal?"

She could recite the entire passage concerning this spell by heart, so she stated with confidence: "No. Definitely not." She couldn't see Harry's face well, but he didn't seem reassured. "Well, Harry, you're not quite normal yourself. So it's not that bizarre that you have a lot more magical ties than the average sixteen-year-old would." Ron rolled his eyes, and both boys waited for her to get to the point. After some technical jargon that probably neither of them listened to, Hermione started identifying the different colored glows that were suffusing the Boy Who Lived.

"Okay, I think I've got the hang of it. This one," she said as she plucked at a green glow that clung to his skin like moss. The instant her wand touched it, it came away like a string of smoke, trailing from her wand like taffy until she left it on the bed. Harry wasn't sure he liked the spell or whatever it was sitting on his bed, but it had already been sitting on him, so it was rather a moot point. Hermione poked it with her wand, and it pulsed. "This is actually tied to Dobby. It seems to alert him if you're in need of his services. I suppose that's how house elves know where to be."

The boys both held their breath, but she didn't start a tirade about the tyranny of house elf servitude, instead turning back to the technicolor yarn ball that was Harry. She started tugging a large blue section, "Ah, now this is Dumbledore. I can't really tell exactly what spell it is, but definitely some kind of protective charm." She pulled off a small orange cloud that was tangled in his hair, and Harry thought he could feel the tug of it. "That's your connection to the Weasleys, of course. Your spot on their clock and all."

Next came a red spot on his arm, shaped vaguely like a lion rampant, "Unsurprisingly, your tie to Gryffindor house. And all these," she rapidly plucked out several dozens of little 'strings', like someone picking loose threads out of a blanket, "are various tokens from your admirers and rivals in the Wizarding world."

Harry looked at the not-small pile those threads had made and asked seriously, "Can we burn them or something?"

Hermione let out a rueful laugh. "I'm afraid this spell only let's us _see_ magical ties, not change then."

Ron muttered, "Figures," and he watched as Hermione continued her dissection. Here was a sort of built-in Dark Detector that it seemed Moody had cast on him at some point. There was his tie to Grimmauld Place, which allowed him to see the Unplottable house. There were too many colors to all be analyzed, but two great webs that Hermione couldn't seem to even move caught the girl's attention.

"It's like they've really taken root in you. Of course I'm not actually _removing_ any of these magics, but most of them can at least be tugged about. But not these two. There too closely tied to each and to you." Hermione sounded a bit shocked as she said, "This glowing green—I think it's from your mother. Her protection. But it's tangled with this darker green, which is You-Know-Who's influence."

It had been a long time since Harry had heard the rational girl refer to Voldemort as 'You-Know-Who'. Something that she saw had unnerved her, and Harry couldn't help his morbid curiosity as he asked, "What is it, Hermione?"

She shook her head as she watched the green threads pulse, centered in two different clusters: the bright green over his heart, and the dark green over the scar on his forehead. Her voice was uncharacteristically uncertain as she tried to explain her fear. "Harry, this is...very unusual. For two warring forces to be linked like this, one trying to protect you and the other trying to harm you... I think it would create an incredible stress on your mind and body. I think it's probably why your scar hurts when he's around." She lightly tapped the familiar old scar. "Here. This is where his magic is centered. When you're close to him, it probably lends more strength to his influence, making it stronger than your mother's.

"I think...no, I'm almost _certain_ that if you are in his presence for too long, it will allow his influence to win out over your mother's protection. And if it does, the Killing Curse that he cast on you all those years ago will be completed."

Hearing her statement, Ron whispered to himself, "Avada kedavra." Hermione nodded.

"You've been carrying that curse in your body all these years, Harry. It's still there, just waiting to be completed. Do you see? Voldemort doesn't have to do anything to win. If you're even near him for too long, his influence could overpower your mother's and...you'd die."

Ron asked in a small, hesitant voice, "But...but what about this last time? You know, when Harry got kidnapped?" He winced when the other two turned their eyes on him but continued, "Well, wasn't he there, Harry?"

Not telling them what had happened would _of course_ come back to bite him in the arse. Now he had to talk about it again. "No," Harry said wearily, "Never for too long at a time. He left a lot of it up to...the Death Eaters."

Neither of his friends pushed for any more detail. Hermione turned back to the glowing landscape of green still dancing over Harry's body like his own little aurora borealis, and she spied a silvery gleam amongst his black hair. With her wand still lowered in her right hand, she reached up with her left hand to run it through Harry's softly clinging hair, pushing it back off his face. It was such a similar move to what Draco did whenever he pulled him in for a kiss that Harry winced.

Hermione probably didn't notice since she was looking at the frail silver strands in her hand. They could have been from Malfoy's own head. Ron had seen Harry's flinching but didn't say anything about it as Hermione shifted the silvery bundle from one hand to the other. "Well, this _is_ from Malfoy," she started, but she didn't sound as triumphant as she should have. "It doesn't seem to be a specific spell though. More just a...connection. A tie between the two of you. As if your magics have linked." She rubbed the thin filaments between her fingers and mused, "I can feel fear and hurt and doubt. And...a great deal of pain." She looked up at Harry and asked him, "Are these Malfoy's feelings? Or yours?"

Harry sat heavily on the bed, displacing the distressingly large piles of 'strings' that had been pulled off of him. "I don't know anymore, Hermione. Probably both."

Hermione took a deep breath and allowed her world to flip on its axis. She placed the silvery threads back in Harry's hands and smoothed a palm over his hair in a motherly gesture. When he looked up at her in question, she told him in a soft voice, "They aren't all negative feelings in there, Harry." She closed her hands over his and explained, not at all wanting to, "There is also attraction, happiness, and...and joy. There is true caring between you, and as much as I hate to admit it, it is no spell."


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle in, kids. This is going to be a long one.

**Chapter 15**

DRACO WOKE TO A WHOLE series of odd feelings, including smothering tightness in his chest and a galloping, uneven pulse. _Not again._ He opened his eyes a sliver and squinted blearily into the wintry sunlight. Then he gave a violent start when he realized that Harry was sitting silently next to his bed. The Gryffindor had dragged the same ebony chair over, and he spoke as if they were already in the middle of conversation while Draco still lay there blinking at him.

"You see, the problem is that I want to talk about what happened. But I don't have anyone I want to talk to about it, except for you."

He didn't even acknowledge that it had been over a week since they were last in this exact position. Draco scrubbed at his eyes, trying not to groan aloud from the constrictive pain in his chest. Why couldn't Harry have picked _any_ other time to return and hurl another spanner in all of Draco's plans? Or simply never returned at all? Draco had had days to resign himself to the fact that he'd failed and would be severely punished, if not outright killed, by Voldemort. And just when he'd given up, here was Harry, breathing life onto the coals of his dead hopes.

Gritting his teeth, Draco pushed himself up on one elbow, his white hair stuck out about his head in a wispy mess. Not up to any elaborate act at the moment, he jerked his head at the other boy—nodding him over—before he collapsed back onto the pillow with a moan of, "Well, go on then. Tell me all about it."

Unable to completely swallow the smile that rose unbidden to his lips, Harry moved to sit on the edge of the coverlet. He looked down at Draco, who had closed his eyes again. The boy's papery skin looked paler than usual, and he had bruises under his eyes, despite it being well into the morning. There were faint lines bracketing his mouth, as if he were in pain. Harry reached towards the blond, but stopped short of touching him. "You all right?"

Draco didn't open his eyes. His voice was thin but at least alive with sarcasm as he retorted, "I've seen better days."

The truth was that Draco hadn't slept more than a few hours during the night. As if things hadn't been bad enough, he'd received a letter from his mother the day before. Of course he'd burned the elegantly penned parchment, but it didn't help matters, as he had the whole bloody thing committed to memory. It had been mercifully short:

_My morning star—_

_I trust this letter finds you well and ready to return home. We anticipate your visit and are eager to meet your new friend over the holidays. Aja will be arriving in time for the festivities as well._ _Until then,_

_Your mother_

Her favored nickname for him was usually associated with Lucifer in the Christian sphere. He'd never been sure if she used it as a nod to his father's name of Lucius, to imply that Draco himself would always be second, as Satan must always be second to and lesser than the Christian God, or simply to foretell his own downfall and destruction. It had never seemed very wise to ask.

And of course, at the bottom of the missive, Narcissa had also penned in the family motto: "So shall thou feed on Death, that feeds on men, / And Death once dead, there's no more dying then." _Way to be subtle, Mummy dearest._ Not that the bit of Shakespeare was the real Malfoy motto. The true motto was " _Sans peur, sans mal, sans tache._ " Somehow the rest of his family seemed to have forgotten that fact, despite it being plastered on a number of heraldic works around the manor.

But worst of all had been the cryptic mention of 'Aja,' which Draco was certain referred to the ajatar that he knew Voldemort had been seeking for months. Draco had spent the night tossing in bed and wondering what it meant that his mother had bothered to mention it, mere days before he was due to see her again anyway. There was no reason she would have needed to put it in a letter. So was it a threat?

The ajatar was a terrible Dark creature that brought sickness and death to any who even got too close to it. If he failed to bring his 'new friend' to Voldemort, would they lock him up in a cell with it to be its first victim? Would he die in feverish misery, hemorrhaging out of every orifice from its toxins? At least that might be quicker than some of the other things Voldemort might do to him.

Then another possible explanation had presented itself. Could Voldemort be planning to somehow smuggle the ajatar into Hogwarts? Were all the children of Death Eaters getting similar warnings, so they could be on the lookout for symptoms and make sure they didn't fall victim to the creature's toxins? If Voldemort only planned to turn the creature loose in Diagon Alley or someplace similar, there would be no reason that Draco would need to know in advance. He couldn't possibly stumble across it. But his mother knew he was due to leave the castle on Christmas morning, so there would be no reason to warn him if it were coming to Hogwarts later—only if it was already on its way here.

Everything had seemed hopeless during the dark hours of the night. New threats loomed over his head, Harry was avoiding him, they were days away from Christmas, and Draco had somehow let everything fall spectacularly to pieces at the last possible moment, when there wasn't enough time left to change course or plot any escape. And yet here was Harry—sitting beside him again and looking faintly worried with his hand outstretched, like Red Riding Hood willingly reaching out to the wolf crouched in her grandmother's bed.

Draco took that concerned look with him as he let his eyes slide shut again. "I will say that this day seems to be an improvement on some recent ones." He sighed and hinted, "If only it could've started a few hours _later_."

Harry snorted and crossed those last few inches to further muss Draco's rumpled hair. What he felt, though, was the unnatural clamminess of Draco's skin, as his hand brushed across the blond's forehead. He frowned and quickly pressed the back of his hand to Draco's head, then to his cheek, before exclaiming, "Jesus, Malfoy! You're cold to the touch!" Those silvery eyes slid open to glare at him, slightly unfocused, and this time, Harry wasn't sure if it was an act or not. He pinned the boy's face between his hands and asked seriously, "I'm not joking around—is there something wrong?"

Draco just stared at him, as if weighing his options. Finally, when Harry thought he wasn't going to answer, the blond admitted, "Yes."

Harry reacted more strongly than Draco had even expected. The Gryffindor jumped to his feet as he exclaimed, "Come on, I'll take you to Pomfrey." Then he jerked back the duvet that had covered Draco.

The thin blond started shivering uncontrollably as the cold morning air hit him. He snatched back the blanket and ground out through clenched teeth, "Now, Potter, I know you've wanted to kill me on any number of occasions, but not like this. Please." He curled himself into a tight ball again under the weight of the blankets, breathing in short little pants as he attempted to get the shaking back under control. The pain was even worse now. Struggling against the trembling in his arm, he reached one hand out of the warm cocoon to fumble at the bedside table, trying to get the drawer open though he couldn't see it from where he was huddled in the middle of the bed.

Harry stared in shock a moment longer, then he jumped to action, pushing Draco's hand back under the duvet as he asked, "What do you need? I'll get it for you."

Draco slid his eyes over to the nightstand, his voice thin and reedy as he said, "There's a bottle of pills in there, if you'd be so kind." Harry pulled open the drawer and didn't have time to wonder about the different personal effects in that jumbled mess. He pawed through them and found four different bottles of utterly Muggle-looking pills.

He turned back to Draco, feeling even more unnerved. Why did Draco have Muggle medicine? Why so many different ones? "Which one?" he asked helplessly.

"The nitro," Draco muttered, and Harry peered at the print on the various little bottles. One had the word 'nitroglycerin' on it, which seemed the closest to whatever Draco had said. He read the instructions on the label to himself. _1 tablet placed under the tongue or between the cheek and gum at the first sign of an angina attack._ He wrestled with the child-safe cap for a moment, before tipping the small white pills out into his hand, separating out a single one, and tipping the extras back into the plastic bottle. _What the hell is an angina attack?_

Pressing the pill into Draco's hand, he asked unsurely, "Do you need water or something?"

Draco shook his head, putting the pill in his mouth and sounding a bit odd as he spoke with his tongue keeping it in place. "Don't swallow it. Just wait for it to absorb."

Harry didn't say anything for a moment. Draco's lips were still a bloodless white, and his mouth was clamped tightly shut. His eyes were also shut, and he was huddled in the mound of blankets, arms curled protectively over his chest. "Are you sure you shouldn't go to the hospital wing?"

Draco shook his head. "Just give it a minute or two. And leave the pills out in case."

Neither of them said anything as the seconds ticked by. Harry watched Draco breathing through his nose and kept count in his head, watching for any sign that things were getting better and racking up more and more questions in his head. The blond let out a long breath, brow furrowed, and swallowed hard, looking as if he was trying not to move a muscle. "If you absolutely feel the need to be more helpful," he muttered after a few more seconds, "you could come over here and warm me up."

The Gryffindor hesitated. They hadn't talked about what had happened the last time they were in this room together. He didn't even know what he really expected to happen this time. He hadn't had a plan in mind when he'd come back here. But there was Draco, weak and unwell, and so Harry pushed off his shoes to crawl up onto the bed. He stretched out next to the blond, the blankets still separating them, then slowly he moved his arms around the cold boy and asked, "What is all this? Why do you have all those pills?"

Draco rolled one shoulder slightly, trying to help alleviate the pain gnawing at his chest. It didn't really help, but hopefully the drugs would. "The pills," he said, his lips tingling with that curious numbness, "are a precaution. This isn't the first time something like this has happened." When Harry asked what 'this' was, Draco took the boy's hand and fumbled with it a moment, managing to press his fingers over Harry's as he held both their hands against his chest.

Once Harry was still enough to feel the fluttery little movement, he sucked a sharp breath in. Draco's pulse was racing, even though they were lying still on the bed. Even worse, the heartbeats sometimes stumbled in their race, giving a heavy lurch, then seeming to stop for an unexpected moment, then fluttering feebly in a rapid staccato against his fingers again. He hissed into Draco's ear, "You have to explain this time, Malfoy. What's wrong with your heart?"

"The fact that I have one?" Draco offered. The suffocating pain had leeched away most his humor, but he couldn't simply let Harry get away with a question like 'What's wrong with your heart?' Honestly.

Harry squeezed him tighter. "I will wrap you up in this blanket and drag you to the hospital wing if I have to, I swear to god..."

"Fine!" Draco grunted, wriggling under the duvet. But the pain was beginning to recede, which was good. He still remembered the strict warnings of the Muggle cardiologist, and knew that he would've been facing some tough decisions about whether to go to Pomfrey if this attack had been too much to respond to a single pill. "Variant angina. It's a...a spasm of the arteries in the heart. It can also hurt like hell, in case you didn't notice." He practically heard Harry grinding his teeth in frustration, so he hurriedly went on. "Look, it doesn't happen often. I'm not at risk for most the things that make it worse: smoking, hard drinking, hard drugs. But it can be triggered by cold. Or by stress. Not that there's been _anything_ in particular causing me stress in the past week or two."

The pointed statement wasn't lost on Harry, who growled back, "Oh no—you don't get to blame me for your weird heart attack, just because I caught you _lying to me for months while you've been working for the bastard who wants to kill me._ "

"I'm pretty sure I did say I was sorry about that," Draco muttered.

Harry let out a shaky breath that might have been a laugh, and Draco thought he heard the Gryffindor mutter something like "Completely outrageous." He felt Harry's head fall against his shoulder and slide from side to side, as if the Gryffindor were shaking his head in disbelief. At last he asked in a more normal voice, "Is this serious?"

"What, the heart thing?" Draco was feeling recovered enough to manage a smirk. "I wouldn't worry about it. Voldemort will kill me before it does."

"If you keep joking about dying or being a Death Eater, I swear, Malfoy, _I_ might kill you before anything else get the chance to."

He should stop pushing his luck. The fact that Harry was even here was something like a miracle. He should be begging the other boy to believe in him and forgive him, but Draco was finding it unusually difficult. Wheedling his way back into the boy's good graces just so that he could betray him again sounded...tiring. So very tiring.

_Maybe I should have just made them kill me the night they Marked me. Would've been simpler._

Draco closed his eyes, felt the warmth of Harry pressed against back, comforting and familiar from all the moments they'd spent in this room in these stolen months, and thought, _No._

And Draco forced himself forward again, as he'd done all those months ago when he'd woken to the searing violation of the Dark Mark being burned into his arm. Malfoys did not give up. And they did not fail. He could still pull this off.

"It's fine," Draco said at last, voice serious if weary. "I'm no more dying than you are. Yes, there's some chance that the angina could lead to a 'life-threatening event', as the doctors would say, but that's life. People get sick, they die in accidents, they're murdered by Dark Lords. At least this generally responds to medication. I have it under control."

Harry could only see the edge of Draco's cheek, from the way he was spooned again the Slytherin. Maybe it was easier to talk like this—without actually having to look the other boy in the face. "Well, if you're not dying at this exact moment?" Despite his dry tone, Harry kept his arms around the blond, the one hand pressed against Draco's chest and the other linked around his bony wrist as if to keep a feel on the pulse there. "Then maybe we can get back to the point."

" _Was_ there a point, Potter? As I seem to remember it, you're here because—and I think I'm quoting you correctly on this—you're a hopeless idiot who has no one in your life to talk to but a terrible excuse for a Death Eater."

The words stung, but Harry didn't think he was the only one they were meant to hurt. Draco sounded as bitter as Harry had ever heard him. "Are you trying to make me angry at you?"

"Maybe I'm trying to stop you from doing something suicidally _stupid_ ," Draco hissed back, the hand he still had wrapped over Harry's convulsing into a fist.

"Why?"

The Slytherin rolled over then, feeling enough like himself to prop himself up on one elbow and glower down at Harry, who had been pushed onto his back on the bed. "I told you _why._ I told you that day that I wasn't trying to hurt you—that I was doing the best I could in the situation." He jabbed a finger in Harry's chest. "You just didn't believe me."

Looking up at the blond, Harry was relieved to see that Draco's face was no longer white and drawn with pain. The anger had brought a flush back to his cheeks. "Maybe I'm starting to."

" _What?_ "

"Maybe I'm starting to believe you."

Draco gaped at him for a moment, clear gray eyes wide and mouth hanging open. Then he snapped his mouth shut and threw himself back onto mattress, dragging his arms up over his face as he lay next to Harry. "It beggars belief that you've survived this long, Potter."

There was a desperation in Draco's voice, as if he were afraid of Harry's words. They stayed there a long while, not speaking to one another as they lay sprawled on Draco's bed, the morning sun streaking through the charmed windows along the wall. Their quiet breaths were the only sound, and Draco felt the last of the tightness in his chest ease at last. It might still return. The reality waiting outside this room certainly would. But for a moment in time, he let himself simply be there, lying with Harry at his side, within reach again.

"Is it just because I'm too damn attractive to resist?" Draco asked at last, finding no escape except in this familiar landscape of insults, trying to goad Harry into snapping back at him. "You finally realized that, even as a Death Eater, I'm still the best you could ever hope to get?"

He glanced at Harry, who looked him up and down with those unbelievable green eyes. The Gryffindor cocked an eyebrow and said, "Maybe I have." And, oh gods, Draco might have fallen a little farther in love in that moment, if a Malfoy could love.

Draco tipped his head back and swallowed hard, staring at the ceiling. "And what does this mean? You being here with me?"

"It means," Harry said slowly, "that I like being here with you. I know I'll have to give it up, but I don't want to give it up until I really have to." He reached over and slipped his hand into Draco's, their fingers slotting together with familiar ease. "I'm trusting that you'll tell me if the time comes when I have to."

The pain in Draco's chest was different from the angina he was familiar with, but no less suffocating. He didn't know if it was his heart breaking or swelling. Harry was putting his life in Draco's hands like the idiot trusting Gryffndor that he was, believing against every shred of evidence that Draco would tell him when the time came that they couldn't put off reality any longer. Trusting Draco to tell him when he was going to have to betray him on Voldemort's orders. He had found his way through the dark woods, recognized the carnivore in his grandmother's clothing, and wrapped his arms around the wolf anyway, asking the wolf to kindly tell him before it stretched its jaws wide to swallow him.

Draco's body didn't feel big enough to contain all the hope and fear and despair that had nowhere to go, and when he squeezed his eyes shut, a tiny bit of it found a way to escape in the trail of wetness that slipped from the corner of one eye. "Right," he whispered, too afraid to speak any louder and not trusting himself to say anything more.

And they remained there for a long while, hand in hand, both willingly ignoring the clock ticking away the little time they had left.

* * *

HARRY DID FINALLY DRAG THE boy out of bed, and they set out together on a brief holiday from reality. They didn't talk about what Draco was supposed to do or define the parameters of their new understanding. Instead they stumbled up through the abandoned dungeons, a mockery of another night months ago, a breathless chase punctuated here and there by desperate clutching and sloppy kisses and laughing whispers up against walls of rough stone. 

When they made it to the Great Hall for lunch, they ran into Ginny, who didn't look surprised at all by the fact that they seemed to have patched things up. The threesome sat together over a lunch of hearty soup and crusty bread, Ginny watching as Draco and Harry shot smoldering looks at one another. After they'd finished eating, she dragged the two of them out the front doors of the castle to see the fresh snow that had fallen over night, threatening to shove them into a drift to help them bring down their temperatures.

They were hardly the only ones outside. With everyone forced to stay at Hogwarts for the hols, and exams done with at last, all the students were glad to get out and enjoy the rare long days of freedom with their classmates. Led by Ginny, Harry and Draco traipsed through the knee-high snow down to the edge of the lake, where Harry watched as Ginny goaded Draco into breaking up the thick edge of ice that had grown on the muddy bank. They stabbed at it with pieces of driftwood they'd pried up from the shore, and it quickly devolved into a race of who could crack off more of the ice floes, which then turned into a competition of who could throw the most broken ice chunks into the other person's territory. They two of them were dripping with water and laughing breathlessly by the time Ron and Hermione found them.

Hermione frowned and quickly cast a drying charm on both Ginny and Draco. "Honestly, what were you thinking? Getting wet in weather like this! You'll catch your deaths."

Draco looked surprised that the Gryffindor prefect had included him in her scolding and charms, but he rose to the occasion—and quickly placed all the blame on Ginny. "You're right, Granger. I just told Ginevra the same thing. But you know how hot-headed these Weasleys can be."

Hermione snorted. "Somehow I doubt that's what happened here, Malfoy. Not that you're wrong about the Weasleys—these two, at least." Ron made an outraged choking noise, and there was a decidedly hot-headed glint in his eye as he scooped up a large handful of snow.

Draco watched with glee as Hermione was forced to back away from Ron—that is, until Ginny shoved a snowball down the back of his shirt underneath his cloak. He turned a furious glare on her, with his most arrogant Malfoy look in place, and was rewarded with a face full of wet snow. Wiping the dripping mess from his face, he addressed the grey heavens above: "Sod it then." With that, he tackled Ginny about the waist, and they went tumbling in a deep snowdrift.

Harry was simply standing by and laughing helplessly, hands tucked in his cloak for warmth as he watched Draco grinning madly while he shoveled more snow on top of Ginny. _I don't know how long we can have this. But even one more week would be worth it. One more day. One more hour._

_Eventually he'll go back to him, but until then...until then Draco can still be mine._

Something burned in his chest, perhaps as bad as whatever Draco had felt that morning, and Harry turned his gaze away to follow Hermione as she darted over the snow. She was shrieking loudly as she ran away, but even so, she was hitting Ron far more often with her well-aimed snowballs than he was getting her with the lumps of snow he was wildly flinging about with shovel-like hands. Glancing back, Harry saw Ginny spluttering on the ground, caked bits of snow clinging to her clothes. But then where was Draco?

As soon as he thought it, he felt a pair of cold lips pressed against the back of his neck. Shivering at the feeling, he turned with a questioning look to the boy he couldn't bring himself to give up. Draco smiled sweetly and pressed a chaste kiss against his forehead. Harry's eyes slid shut and before he could think of the ramifications of everyone seeing them like this, he was brought back to reality by the handful of snow that Draco had shoved down the front of his shirt. The blond dashed away, cackling maniacally, while Harry yelped and tried to pull the wet cold away from his skin. Tugging his shirt out to dislodge the snow, he sprinted after Draco, jumping on the other boy and sending them both rolling across the ground. Draco was dazed for a moment, and Harry took the opportunity to sit on top of him and stuff snow down his shirt in return.

The others paused in their own trials to watch the infamous Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry flare back into life. Then Draco threw Harry off himself and crawled a few feet away. He held one hand out to stave Harry off and the other was grasping at his chest. Harry felt instantly sorry and stumbled closer to the Slytherin to ask, "You all right?"

"Harry..."

Draco looked up at him with wide grey eyes.

"You are so gullible."

And he shoved a handful of snow right into the Gryffindor's face.

Harry looked _pissed_ as he tried to scrape the snow from his glasses. Draco scrambled to his feet and ran around Hermione, taking her by the shoulders and trying to keep the girl between him and Harry as the Boy Who Lived stalked closer. It was made a lot harder by the fact that Hermione kept twisting away. "Come on! He's _your_ friend, Granger!"

Hermione managed to get around Draco again, shoving him forward as she pointed out, "And I thought he was _your_ boyfriend, Malfoy."

Draco raised one icy eyebrow at that and said appreciatively, "Good point." He stepped forward into the path of Harry's angry stalk, holding his arms out wide as he declared, "Harry, darling, can't we talk this—" He didn't get any further when the dark-haired boy threw himself at Draco and knocked them both to the ground, forcing the air out of the blond.

Draco wheezed in Hermione's general direction, "Brill idea, Granger."

Ginny tripped over and peered down at Draco from over Harry's shoulder. "I think you may have broken him, Harry."

Draco just managed a suggestive smile as he asked, "Are you offering to 'fix' me, _ma petite rouge?_ "

Harry shoved snow in his mouth. While the blond choked, the Gryffindor accused him, "That was really low, Malfoy."

Draco spit out the snow. "Yeah, _Slytherin_ ," he pointed out, making a stilted gesture toward the crest on his cloak as if that explained everything—which it probably did.

Harry crawled off him, but still asked, " _Are_ you all right?"

The blond just shrugged, and Harry's expression grew even darker. He'd noticed that when Draco refused to answer certain questions, it often meant that he didn't want to lie outright to Harry, but that he knew the truth wasn't going to reassure the Gryffindor. So he probably had been in real pain.

Ginny flopped down on the ground as well, and she and Harry sat to either side of the prone Slytherin, the snow soaking into their trousers. She absently poured handfuls of snow onto Draco as they listened to the distant shrieks of Ron and Hermione, who had resumed their own battle. Eventually those stopped as well, and Harry glanced over in their direction, where the two of them seemed to be discussing something serious. (Truth was they were discussing him.)

"Well, looks like that's finished at least."

Hermione looked at Ron and asked him, "What's finished?"

He waved a hand at the threesome sitting in the snow and explained, "Whatever was getting to Harry. Looks like he and Malfoy have made up." Hermione made a noncommittal noise, still not entirely comfortable with the role she might have played in Harry's patching things up with his Slytherin boyfriend. Even if Harry did look much happier again.

Then Ron grabbed her hand and asked her, "Don't you think it's time we made up as well?"

Hermione blinked at his hand holding hers, the two pairs of matching Gryffindor gloves intertwined. "Just what are you asking, Ron?"

The redheaded boy grinned cheekily and told her, even as he flushed red, "I-I'm asking you to be my girlfriend, Hermione Granger."

She peered up at him from the foot in height difference between them and said critically, "Well, in that case, Ronald Weasley... I guess I'm going to have to accept." Ron squeezed her hand happily and then pulled her along with a huge grin as they rejoined the others.

Harry and Ginny shared a gloating smile when they saw the new couple, and Draco peered up at them from the ground. He kept his voice bland as he said, "Well, it seems congrats are in order, Weasel. You've finally grown a pair of balls." His eyes slid to Hermione, and he smiled sharply. "Unless Granger finally got fed up and asked you herself."

Ron glared at him and muttered, "Fuck you, Malfoy."

Draco's smile was laced with disappointment when he replied, "If only Harry would oblige." Harry turned a flaming red while Ron turned a sickly green. And for a moment everything was perfect, as Draco looked up at Harry's embarrassed face and the friends the boy had surrounded himself with and somehow dragged Draco in among. They were surrounded by miles of glittering snow and an endless blue sky, and if it might be one of his last days on earth, it wasn't a bad one at all. Draco thought to himself how nice it had been, while it lasted.

_Even if I can't have this, maybe they should get to._

And a sudden thought had crystalized into action. "By the way," he said, his heart pounding as plans adjusted and rearranged themselves in his head, settling into a new and even more precarious formation. "There's something I was thinking I should share with you little band of do-gooders."

Harry's face was still hot enough to melt the snow, but he reached out and put a hand on Draco's arm, over the skin they both knew was stained black. Draco shook his head at him—no, of course he wasn't going to tell them _that_. He was still looking at Harry when he said, "Something I think you ought to know about. But we'd need to talk somewhere more private."

* * *

DRACO HAD JUST GOTTEN DRESSED when Ron Weasley walked into the prefects' bathroom, which was quite fortunate. He'd learned to shower and get his shirt back on in a hurry since he'd been relying on the semi-private bathroom for his daily needs. He did miss lapping around in the large bath, but not enough to risk revealing the Mark on his arm to any one of the other dozen male prefects who could stroll in at any time.

As soon as their eyes met in the mirror, both Ron and Draco looked away, breaking the contact. There was an uncomfortable silence as Draco finished pulling his robes on over the shirt that was clinging to his still-damp skin, and Ron wondered whether he dared draw a bath while Harry's _boyfriend_ was there. But if he waited too long, Hermione would have something to say about it, and he really did want a hot bath after the freezing snow. He turned on the spigot for the icy white foam—it would at least cover him completely, if it came to that.

Draco was looking only at his own reflection in the mirror as he fixed his hair (mostly for the excuse not to look at Weasley). "So, finally snagged Granger. Good luck keeping that one happy."

Ron turned to look at him suspiciously but all he could see was the back of that blond head. He bit out, "Just because you can't keep a woman happy doesn't mean I can't, Malfoy."

The look that Malfoy threw at him was amused. "I could keep a woman _ecstatic_ , Weasel—I'm with Potter by choice, not necessity."

"And you think you make Harry happy?" Ron asked, a note of challenge in his voice.

A look of something like pain spasmed across that Malfoy face for an instant and then was gone again. "Of course. It's easy to make Potter happy. All he wants is someone who will tease him, someone who will really see him. Someone who will touch him." Malfoy snickered at the expression on Ron's face. "Good god, Weasel. I know that you're a teenaged boy, but must you make everything sexual?

"There are all kinds of touch, you know. Most people crave human contact. But Potter..." Malfoy's voice had grown serious, and he seemed to have almost forgotten about Ron. The Gryffindor turned away and watched the bath water as the pool filled. "He seems starved for touch. Probably because those disgusting Muggle relatives of his, or maybe because of his celebrity in the Wizarding world. For whatever reason, Potter strikes me as one of the loneliest people I've ever met."

Before Ron, as Harry's best mate and boon companion, could take offense to that, Malfoy seemed to realize uncomfortably exactly how much male-bonding was going on. "Well, enjoy your bath, Weasel, and watch out for Moaning Myrtle."

He strode to the door and had pulled it open by the time Ron found his voice and called after him, "Malfoy! Is this...is this all real? What you're doing with Harry?"

Draco didn't turn around as he replied, "As real as anything can be." And with that unsatisfactory answer, he hurried out of the bathroom.

* * *

RON WAS THE LAST TO arrive in the prefects' lounge. This was the school-wide lounge, not one of the smaller ones that each house held. There was signboard on the front of the door, so that prefects could reserve the room if they needed to resolve inter-house conflicts. Hermione's neat, round handwriting had exed out the rest of the evening with an underlined notice: 'Private Conference—PLEASE KNOCK. – Hermione Granger.' Even though he was a part of the 'private conference', Ron knocked on the door and waited for Hermione to pull it open.

She smiled brightly up at him and ushered him in, locking the door behind them. Ginny was sitting in an armchair with a tall mug of hot cocoa held between her hands. She smirked at her closest brother and hailed the two of them over. Harry and Malfoy seemed to whispering urgently over in a corner, but Ron couldn't hear what they were saying.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Harry hissed at the blond.

"No, of course not," Draco said at once. "It's probably a terrible idea."

"Then why do it?"

Draco looked at Harry, searching those green eyes. "Maybe less people will die if I do."

He had made a split second decision, out there in the snow where he'd laughed with Ginny Weasley and been scolded by Hermione Granger. Outside on the grounds where the shrieks and chatter of other young witches and wizards had rung out across the icy fields. Outside of the school that was half the size of what it had once been, because so many of the other students he'd known for years had already died in this stupid war. And Draco had decided in that moment that no one else should have to die.

He and Potter might be doomed no matter what he did. The chances weren't great that they were going to both walk away from this. Even if they did, it wouldn't be as friends or whatever they were now. So maybe Draco couldn't save either of them. And maybe he couldn't save anyone else either, but for the first time, he thought perhaps he might try to anyway, because the closer Draco got to the end, the less he cared about being careful. He'd been careful for months, and it had all fallen apart anyway. Perhaps it was time he started playing by ear.

Besides, telling Harry's friends this one little piece of information wasn't likely to change all that much in the grand scheme of things. There was little time for Dumbledore's side to respond and almost no information to go off of. But who knew? Maybe the tip would be enough to make Harry believe that Draco was on their side. Maybe it would be enough to ensure that Harry would take the portkey. That was how he would explain it, if Voldemort did somehow find out—if he somehow pulled the information from Harry's head, from whatever bond they had. It was true, even if it wasn't the truth.

Running a hand back through his hair, Harry squeezed his eyes shut once and sighed. "All right, here goes nothing."

They walked over to sit down on the low couch opposite of the one Ron and Hermione were sitting in. As they settled in, Draco put a hand on that messy black hair and brought their heads close together, muttering in Harry's ear, "It'll be fine." Ron noticed the way Harry seemed to turn in towards Draco's touch and wondered if perhaps the Slytherin might have been right about what he said in the bathroom. Then Malfoy turned to the rest of them. "Sorry to make such a fuss but some topics really aren't meant for discussing out on the grounds." He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "But I've heard something of Voldemort's plans that I think your side should be prepared for. It seems Voldemort has managed to get an ajatar. Probably to release at Christmas."

Hermione exclaimed at once, "At Christmas?! That's not even two days away!"

Draco directed his response at her, since she was the only one showing the proper degree of alarm. "I only found out yesterday myself."

Hermione knew without looking that Ron would have no idea what this meant. Honestly, Ginny was little better off, and so Hermione explained to them both, "An ajatar is very rare Dark creature, usually found in northern Europe. It isn't particularly strong or dangerous itself, but it brings illness wherever it goes." She looked seriously between the other two Gryffindors, brown eyes intent and worried. "It's _really_ bad. If you fall sick, you're gone in just hours unless someone can get you to a very good mediwizard. But the illness progresses so quickly that if people don't realize what it is, it's usually too late to save them by the time they seek out help."

"Precisely why some advance warning seemed prudent," Draco interjected, drawing Hermione's attention back to him.

"Yes," she agreed, sounding distracted. "If there really might be an ajatar here in Britain, people would need to be warned so they could be on the lookout for the symptoms. And even then, St. Mungos could quickly be overwhelmed if the creature can't be found and contained."

Ginny set her cocoa down on the table, leaning forward into the conversation. "What does it look like? Is it easy to spot?"

"It looks more or less like a woman," Draco said, looking at Ginny although he could feel Hermione's eyes on him. "A bit scalier than usual, a bit snakier, but easy enough to hide that under a cloak and have it to walk up and down Diagon Alley, spreading death all around it."

"Is that the plan?" Ginny asked, looking sick. "Diagon Alley?"

"It could be. It could be anywhere. It could even be that they plan to strike here, at Hogwarts." The blond had to shake his head. "I have no idea. I don't know anything more than what I told you. It's either in Britain or it's coming. The timing seems likely to be Christmas." His mother's cryptic hint hadn't given him anything more to work off of.

"I think the real question here," Hermione asked, her voice sounding carefully controlled as it cut across the two of them, "is how did you learn about this?"

From the corner of his vision, he could tell that Harry had turned his head to look at him, but Draco kept his gaze locked on Granger. "I read it in a letter."

"That's not exactly an answer," Ron pointed out, seeming somewhat uncomfortable about getting involved in the conversation. "And if you just found a letter lying around, is there any guarantee it's true?"

"The letter was addressed to me." Draco glanced at Harry at last, their eyes meeting for a few moments. He really was getting stupidly reckless, but if he might die anyway, maybe they could say of him he'd done this one thing right at least. A little less innocent blood on his hands when they tallied up his sins and wrote him off in the history books. "It was a letter from my mother."

There was a long silence after that. Draco was still watching Harry's face rather than any of the others. The dark-haired boy bit his lip but gave a slight nod, trying to look reassuring. They were still in this together.

"Can we see this letter?" Hermione asked.

Draco shook his head, a smirk automatically catching the edge of his mouth as he admitted, "I burned it." It would've been unwise to show them anyway, so how convenient that he also happened to be telling the truth this time.

Hermione's voice sharpened a hair as she asked, "And how would your mother know Voldemort's upcoming plans?"

"Oh, you _know_ how." Draco exclaimed, a note of annoyance in his voice as he gestured sharply with one hand. "Don't play dumb, Granger. It doesn't suit you."

"Fine," Hermione agreed. "I do know how. What I don't know is why exactly she would tell you."

"She's my mother," Draco shot back. "Surely she loves me and wants me to be safe." It should have sounded like common sense, but the words were spoken with such bitter mockery that no one in the room could be left believing that Narcissa Malfoy was that kind of loving mother.

Maybe this really hadn't been a good idea. He could have just told Potter, trusted that Harry would warn Dumbledore or whoever else he could. Though it was just as likely that the canny headmaster would've asked where Harry had gotten the information from or even pulled it right out of his head with his Legilimency.

"Even so, I have to say that I find it a bit odd," Hermione pushed. "It would seem unusually risky to me to share strategic plans like this with someone, even with your own child, if you weren't sure you knew exactly what they might do with the information."

"Like Dumbledore never tells us anything about any of his plans," Harry interrupted to say, rolling his eyes a bit behind his glasses. "It's not all that different."

"No, it's not." Hermione looked between the two of them, only her eyes moving. "But Dumbledore only tells us things because he knows we're on his side." She studied the Malfoy in front of her, thinking about how long it would take her to reach her wand in her robe pocket if it came to that. "It seems your mother must have a good reason to think you're on her side."

Oh, this was dangerous ground. Granger really was too clever by half. He'd expected she might question the truth of the information or be suspicious of his motivations but she was getting uncomfortably close to the truth now. _This is what comes of being reckless._ Draco smiled ruefully, both at his own foolishness and for the act. "Look, I can't speak to why she told me or whether it's even true. I just didn't feel it was something I should keep to myself. But if you don't want to do anything with the information, that's up to you." He looked to Harry and nodded to the door, raising one eyebrow. "Seems like perhaps we're done here."

Harry was ready to get up and follow him. But as Draco started to rise from the sofa, Hermione's quiet voice rang through the small room as she said, "If you really want me to believe you're telling us this in good faith, Malfoy, maybe you could do me the favor of rolling up your sleeves."

Draco froze, feeling Harry jump beside him. "Hermione!" A sort of shocked laugh leaked from the other boy as he tried to defuse the situation. "This is getting ridiculous. Malfoy happened to hear something important, he's passed it along so we can be ready in case it turns out there's any truth to it—there's nothing more sinister going on here than that."

Malfoy slowly lowered himself back down onto the sofa—but he didn't pull back his sleeves to prove his innocence. Every second that he didn't move only made it worse. Why not just show his arms, unless he had something to hide? Ginny watched from the side as her brother leaned back so he could ease his wand from his pocket, letting it rest lightly on his leg. 

"It's a pretty simple request," Ron pointed out in the strained silence. He cocked an eyebrow at the blond sitting across from him. "Not a lot of reason to hesitate, unless there's something there you don't want us to see."

Harry leaned forward, shouldering his way slightly in front of Malfoy as if he needed to protect the Slytherin. "You guys! You're my best friends, but this is really taking things too far. He doesn't have to prove anything to you. I trust Malfoy. I believe that he's telling us this in good faith. So if you still trust me, then let's all just calm the hell down."

Hermione had her wand out as well now, though she was also keeping it low and not yet pointing it at anyone. "Harry, we've seen what he can do. We've seen him cast the Imperius curse on you in front of all of us, for goodness sake! You can't blame us for not simply taking your word on this. You can't say we've got _nothing_ to be suspicious about when he can't immediately show us that he doesn't have a Mark on his arm!"

"So what, now you think Malfoy's the one putting words in my mouth? You saw me break through his Imperius curse! You're the one who claimed you could tell when I wasn't under it!"

" _Empyrium!_ "

Harry jumped as an electric shock zinged through his tense muscles, and he turned to stare at Ginny with a look of betrayal as she lowered her wand. "What? I was helping!" she protested. "Proving that you aren't under the Imperius curse." She tucked her wand back away as she muttered, "Seemed like the quickest way to clear things up."

"Well, thanks for that, Gin," Harry said through gritted teeth. "Then if we've established that I'm not defending Malfoy because I've been Imperiused, are the two of us allowed to leave now?"

"No." Hermione's voice cut across the room. "That's not good enough."

Harry was trying not to panic, but he didn't know how to get Hermione to just _drop_ it. Because there wasn't any good reason for Draco to refuse to show the others his arms if they were bare, and Hermione knew it as well as he did. "Hermione. You did that charm on me. You admitted that Malfoy hasn't got any spell over me." He looked into her eyes, trying to impress on her how serious he was. "So please. I've seen Malfoy's arms—I've seen just about every inch of him, not that I think you want to hear that—and there's nothing there that I don't know about."

Hermione raised her wand and pointed it at Malfoy, her face set. She wasn't going to just let Draco walk away. Even if Harry stunned his friends and let Malfoy run away that moment, they would go to Dumbledore with their suspicions next. The teachers would insist on seeing his arm to be certain, and then he would be handed over to the Aurors if he didn't somehow escape, and either way, Harry might never see him again. Harry looked over his shoulder at Draco's grim face, looking for some way out and not finding it.

 _So it's over,_ Draco thought as he reached down with his right hand, already stretching his left forearm straight out in front of him. _I think I'm glad it's over._

He shoved up the sleeve of his heavy robes and the shirt he was wearing underneath, baring the white skin of his inner forearm and the black skull that was emblazoned on it, terrible as the snake that twisted through its grinning teeth. Ron's wand flew up, and Hermione opened her mouth to shout a curse, but then Harry threw out his hands. He still had no wand, but he poured a blanket of power over the room, much like Draco had done in their D.A. meeting, and held the other three Gryffindors immobile where they sat.

" _I knew._ " Harry's voice was raw as he beseeched his friends, who were stuck frozen on their way to attacking and staring at him in shocked betrayal. "I knew, all right!? This isn't—you don't need to hex him into oblivion or—or start hurling Stunners about or whatever you're thinking of right now!"

Draco Malfoy heaved a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping as he sat back on the sofa, his left arm still exposed. "You can't hold them there forever. It's over, Potter."

Harry searched his friends' faces, his hands still stretched out. "Just—please. Don't start throwing hexes the instant I let go." Then, bracing himself against their anger, he let his hands fall back into his lap and stopped bleeding magic all over. Ron and Hermione both fumbled their wands as they came unstuck, while Ginny only sank back slightly in her chair, her eyes still on Malfoy. Beautiful, dangerous Draco Malfoy, with his impossibly white hair and his silver eyes, always so poised and elegant—now sprawled against the sofa back with one arm thrown over his eyes. He really was a Death Eater? An actual monster, and not just the son of one?

"Harry, you _have_ to listen to reason now," Hermione bit out. "This is bigger than—than him knowing how to cast some Dark curses or cheating in Quidditch!"

Harry was still shaking his head. "I know what you're thinking, but you don't know the whole story. I don't even know the whole story still. Just—just think what would have happened if we'd turned on Sirius all those years ago, because we thought he was evil and working for Voldemort. Think of all we would have missed. Maybe..." He glanced back at Draco again. "Maybe things aren't always as simple as we want them to be."

Hermione lowered her wand slightly, but she didn't loosen her grip. "Some things are simple, Harry. If he's a Death Eater, we can't just let him walk free."

Draco snorted, his arm still over his face. "Believe me, there's no such thing as a 'free' Death Eater, Granger."

"Then why become one?"

"It wasn't a _choice_ ," he hissed.

Harry interrupted before they could start fighting again. "Look, Malfoy and I have been over this already! Can everyone just shut up for a minute and put the wands down?!"

Silence reigned in the prefect's lounge as Ron looked between his two best friends. Hermione never took her eyes from Malfoy, but she did at least sit back, settling against the cushions of the sofa they were sharing. Harry took a deep breath, and everyone seemed to be waiting to see who would break the stalemate first. Ron's glanced at his little sister, sitting across the room, and they shared a grimace: the familiar look of commiseration from a pair of siblings who have sat through many a strained family argument together, watching as the grownups fought.

"We cannot leave a known Death Eater free in the castle," Hermione said at last, enunciating each word carefully, as if Harry had failed to understand her before because she simply hadn't been speaking clearly enough.

"Lock me up then," Draco said. He reached for his wand, and the two Gryffindor prefects both raised theirs in a flash, but Draco only threw the piece of yew on the table between them. It clattered against the tabletop, rolling a few times before falling onto the ground at Ron's feet. "If I refuse to answer his summons, the pain will eventually drive me mad or kill me, so you'll be signing my death warrant. But it hardly matters. I'll be dead by New Year either way."

Something went still in Harry's face as the others stared. He turned to look at the blond beside him. "What are you talking about?"

"I told you he'd kill me first, Potter. You _really_ don't listen to anything I tell you, do you?" There was a pained smile on Malfoy's face. It faded when Harry kept staring at him. "I had one task to do, and I've failed at it."

"What were you supposed to do?" Ginny asked, voice hushed but curious.

Malfoy didn't look at her, though, his eyes still trained on Harry's face and his lips twisted into that terrible shape as misery glinted in his eyes. "What do you _think_ I was supposed to do? Do you really think this was some kind of coincidence? That I was ostracized by all my house, and when I had nowhere left to turn, I just happened to find myself befriending the Boy Who Lived? Can you believe that, knowing that I have this Mark on my arm?" His mouth tightened. "It was all a ploy. A lie."

"That's not all this was," Harry said.

Draco lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "That's all it was supposed to be."

"But that's not all it _was_ ," Harry said, stronger this time. They stared at one another, neither blinking for several long moments.

"Well. It doesn't matter now."

Ron was the one to ask, "What does New Year's have to do with it?"

Draco finally tore his eyes away from Harry's face, keeping his face schooled into blankness. New Year's didn't mean anything. He'd only said it because he'd meant he wouldn't live to see the next year dawn. But he realized his offhand remark might have accidentally bought him enough time to misdirect their attention, just long enough. Loose plans took shape even as he spoke, spun out of nothing but air. "Tasks come with deadlines, Weasley. There wouldn't be much point otherwise."

He let his head tip back onto the sofa, eyes falling shut so he didn't have to see any of their faces. "I was given till the end of the year to get Potter out of the castle. I was supposed to get him outside the wards, where he would be vulnerable, then signal the Dark Lord so he could Apparate to wherever we were. I don't think he'll have conveniently forgotten that fact, when January rolls around and I still haven't done a thing." The lies came so easily. He almost hated how easy it was, even as another part of him burned with relief.

There were several long moments of silence before Harry said, "But you could have done it. Dozens of times. You could have easily talked me into walking down to Hogsmeade or...or..."

Draco lifted one shoulder in a desultory shrug. "I was delaying. And now time's up."

"You could—you could still try to ignore the summons—he can't get to you here in Hogwarts—"

Real anger colored Draco's voice as he snapped, "Do _you_ know what it feels like, Potter? It's like the Cruciatus if you refuse the summons long enough. How many hours did it take the Longbottoms to succumb to madness from that curse? How long do you think it'll take me?"

Harry looked around at his friends, desperate and looking for some lifeline. He hadn't _known_. He'd thought they would have more time. _It's barely more than a week till New Year._

"Hermione, isn't there something..." He searched her face, which was pale and tight, though she no longer looked about to hex Draco. Ron's expression had crumpled into a miserable mask of doubt, and when Harry looked at him, he only shrugged helplessly. "Hermione," Harry pleaded. "You must have some idea. There must be _something_ we could do."

When Hermione still didn't say anything, Ginny spoke up. "What if we just knocked him out or something?" Everyone stared at her, and she could feel herself redden. No one expected Hermione to be the one to then agree in a quiet tone.

"It might work."

Harry looked at Hermione, but the girl was staring down at her own hands as she slowly felt out the words. "Perhaps some sort of...induced coma or a similar state. Something like Dreamless Sleep. Just something to keep him from experiencing the pain so it wouldn't damage his mind." She lifted her brown eyes. "It might buy some time at least, if that were necessary. But this isn't something for us to tackle on our own. We should tell Dumbledore—" She broke off when she saw Malfoy shaking his head. "Well, if you don't want to talk to him, then your next option is Snape. If anyone would know about the Dark Mark and what can be done about it, it's him."

Draco scrambled for an excuse. Snape wouldn't hesitate to pour Veritaserum down his throat. "I don't trust him. Not Snape."

"Dumbledore trusts him—" Hermione started, but Draco cut her off.

"And so does Voldemort. One of them must be wrong. Can you say for sure which one?" He leaned forward, inching over the table between he and Granger and letting his eyes bore into hers. "Give us a day or two to see if we can't come up with anything on our own. There are plenty of books written about Voldemort's first war in the library. Maybe there'll be some clue in one of them." He let his lip curl up in a hint of smile. "And if even your precious library fails us, then fine. Tell Dumbledore or Snape, and you can enjoy watching them pack me straight off to either the Aurors or Voldemort, to get what I deserve."

They both tried to stare each other down, but neither was about to give up. Harry glanced at the two Weasleys in the room, and Ginny picked up her mug of cocoa again. "I don't mind checking the library. I didn't have any other particular plans for tomorrow until the big dinner." Harry gave her the most grateful look she'd ever got in her life, which probably made up for the idea of spending a holiday cooped up reading history books.

Malfoy, meanwhile, leaned out past Harry to shoot her a smirk. "Have I told you lately that you're the best Weasley?"

She took a sip of her drink and wrinkled her nose at how cold it had gone. "Even if you have, you can always do more of it. I don't mind."

" _Ginny,_ " Ron groaned. "I'm going to tell Mum that you're friends with a Death Eater, and you're going to be in so much trouble."

"So?" Harry asked tentatively. "Hermione, will you help us, too?"

Draco watched the Muggleborn girl closely as he drawled, "Honestly, I fancy my chances of you figuring something out better than the odds of Dumbledore or Snape coming to my rescue." She startled, staring at him in wide-eyed surprise, and Draco shrugged. "What? You're the only one who regularly beats me in classes, and that's saying something."

A flush crept up the girl's cheeks, but she still wasn't going to be won over that easily. " _One day_ ," she stressed. "One day to see if it looks like there might even be a hint of help in the library. And in the meantime, you're not to be left alone."

Draco gave a benign smile. "All right. Potter can watch me."

" _No, he cannot."_ Hermione sucked in a deep breath, trying to hold onto her temper. "He's not to even be _alone_ with you again until we figure this out!"

"Oh, come off it, Granger." Draco's eyes hardened again. "Do you think I waited all these months so that I could attack Potter _now?_ Now that you all know my dirty little secret and after I explicitly told you what Voldemort ordered me to do? You may think I'm evil, but I'm not stupid."

Harry reached across the table to grab Hermione's hands, squeezing them tightly as he said, "Hermione, please. We've only got nine days till New Year. I promise we'll go to Dumbledore if we have to, but until then—help us?"

The Slytherin watched over the scene, still not quite believing that this might actually work. It had been one thing when Harry had thrown himself right back into Draco's schemes, even knowing that he had a Dark Mark on his arm. It was an entirely different thing for his _friends_ to go along with it. He'd never imagined the Gryffindors ever snuck around doing a thing without Dumbledore's seal of approval. Could he really hold off their suspicions long enough?

_I only have until Christmas. Just one more day to make it through._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. Oof. Malfoy knows French? Check. Secret dead twin? Check. Unnecessarily dramatic health complications? Check. What can I say... I was a very new writer when I first wrote this fic. Apparently I went with the spaghetti test of "throw every plot device you can think of at the wall, and see how many stick!" The story could definitely be reworked without these rookie mistakes, but I'm attempting to keep it fairly true to the original. Which might just be a terrible idea.
> 
> Either way this chapter has got to be the most changed from the original so far. And it just kept _growing_. It still retains the same beats as it ever did (reveal of Draco's heart condition, the boys' reconciliation, Draco telling the others about a threat, the others finding out he's a DE), but the scenes have shifted significantly in tone because it didn't feel right or believable to me anymore how Harry and Draco were reacting. The last scene, in particular, is entirely different than it used to be. Just one of those things I feel a duty to call out, in case anyone read this story in the old days and finds themselves thinking, "That's not how I remember it..." You would be absolutely right.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 16**

DRACO WAS THE ONE TO insist that Harry still ought to go talk to Dumbledore about the ajatar ("Though do try not to let it slip how you found out about it, would you? At this rate, the whole castle will know about me by midnight.") and so with one last worried look at his boyfriend, Harry had left the blond alone with his friends. After the door to the prefects' lounge fell shut behind him, the other four students had sat in tense silence for several moments, only broken when Draco had held out his wrists and asked if the Gryffindors wanted to perhaps lock him in chains. Ron had snorted, but he'd also picked up Draco's yew wand and pocketed it rather than handing it back.

A sort of plan had been hashed out, and Hermione had left for the library to start gathering books. It was already close to dinner time by then, and Madam Pince didn't keep the library open late during the holidays. It would have been nice to have Ginny's help carrying things, but Hermione didn't trust even a wandless Death Eater alone in a room with Ron, so she'd insisted that Ginny stay behind and keep her wand trained on Malfoy until Hermione herself returned.

It was a good thing that Hermione was such a regular fixture in the library—the librarian didn't bat an eyelash at the infamously studious girl taking out some two dozen books on Voldemort's reign and magical bindings in the middle of the holiday break. And Hermione had hurriedly charmed the huge pile of books that she'd lugged up to the librarian's desk, levitating them into the air and ordering them to follow after her as she scurried back to the prefects' lounge as quickly as she dared go.

Hermione wasn't sure what she thought of all this, really. _Draco Malfoy is a Death Eater._ It was the sort of thing Harry or Ron would've said for years, accusing the blond of being evil incarnate. Of course she'd had her own doubts throughout the year about Malfoy's intentions. But suddenly the little clues had clicked into place: Malfoy's insider knowledge of Voldemort's plans, the strange shock that Harry had been going through the last couple days, the claim that he'd learned something about Malfoy he couldn't accept... And the suspicions had been true. The Mark on his arm made it undeniable. But could it really also be true that he hadn't wanted to be one? Was he genuine about wanting to escape from his bonds—or was he simply playing along because he'd got caught?

When she let herself back into the small room, Hermione was almost surprised to find it wasn't a smoking crater or a murder scene. Ginny was sitting forward in her chair with a fascinated expression on her face as she seemed to be questioning Malfoy about his time as a Death Eater. The blond had his arms crossed as he sat easily on the sofa, like this was a normal sort of chat to be having with the fifth-year girl. Ron looked up almost guiltily when Hermione dropped the books on the table, as if he also felt there should be more threatening and glaring going on, and yet Draco and Ginny insisted on doing nothing of the sort.

"But how could you have managed not show your arm for _months?_ What about—what about Quidditch? Didn't you get changed in the locker rooms?"

"Well, since they kicked me off the team, it wasn't an issue for very long," Malfoy explained, rolling his eyes but sounding more indulgent than angry. "But it's not that hard to show up before anyone else, or linger a bit after practice to be the last to head into the locker rooms to change."

Hermione threw a book at Malfoy—then immediately felt guilty for treating a book in such a way—and the boy caught it against his stomach with a grunt. "You can start with that one," she said, a stern look warning him that _she_ for one hadn't forgotten to be suspicious, even if Ginny seemed fine fraternizing with a Death Eater who might or might not be trying to trick them all into complacency. Malfoy lifted the book to look at it, and his eyebrows shot up as he read the dense title. She'd chosen one of the hardest texts for him, a highly-technical tome on magical bindings and their theory. Hermione only gave a little sniff and reminded me, "You said it yourself, Malfoy: you're only second behind me in class. You might as well pull your weight."

For Ginny and Ron, Hermione selected popular histories of the last war against Voldemort, books written for a more general audience. Ginny looked between the book and Hermione, then gave a little sigh as she cracked her assigned reading open. "I said I could spend _tomorrow_ in the library," she muttered under breath as she flipped past the title page. "I don't remember saying anything about tonight."

"Still best Weasley," Malfoy said in a distracted voice, not looking up from scanning the index page of the book Hermione had given him.

"Hey, I'm giving up my afternoon, too, and no one even asked me!" Ron exclaimed. He hadn't bothered to open the book Hermione had dropped on his lap.

Malfoy glanced up at him with an unimpressed look. "Yes, and...?" A vein start to pulse in Ron's cheek, and the blond gave a familiar smirk. It was all so terribly _normal_ , just as they'd always acted. 

"You're such an absolute git," Ron growled.

"Takes one to know one."

Hermione had had her own book open but she snapped it shut with a loud bang. " _Enough_." She glared at Ron for a moment before turning her real ire on Malfoy. "I am _this_ close to insisting that we report all this to some proper authority immediately, whether it be Dumbledore or the ministry. I'd think you would be taking this a little more seriously if you were genuine about your claims, rather than acting like a petty child. You could at least pretend to be contrite."

"Why?" No traces of humor were left in Malfoy's silvery gray eyes now. "Contrition won't save me. Most likely nothing is going to save me. Would you like it better if I were to fall to the floor, weeping in despair over the fact that I can count the time I have left in days?" His voice was strained now, nearly to the point of breaking, and tight with a bleak sort of grief. "Do you seriously think it doesn't bother me that my life was stolen from me, Granger? That I might not even live to adulthood? You think I don't care that I'm about to lose what I managed to find with Harry, because all my choices were taken from me by the family I was born into?" He looked back down at the book on his lap, blinking suspiciously. "You don't want to hear it. And I don't want to say it. So let's just read the damn books."

Hermione shivered, a chill going through her heart. Perhaps Malfoy was only a very convincing actor. A far better actor than she'd ever given him credit for. Or perhaps it was possible that he really was telling the truth.

* * *

IN THE END, HARRY HAD returned to tell them all that Dumbledore had taken the news surprisingly well, seeming to accept Harry's tale that he'd picked up a glimpse of Voldemort's mentioning an ajatar from a dream. Perhaps if there'd been more time, he would have dug deeper, but if the ajatar might really be released for the holidays, then they had little time to prepare. Dumbledore had hurried to his fireplace to summon Snape and some of the Order members to see if they could do anything to confirm whether it might be true and to start spreading warnings across the country. Harry had been allowed to leave before very long, when it had seemed undeniable that he truly didn't know anything more than what he'd claimed.

The five students had continued reading in the prefects' lounge late into the evening, absently chewing on sandwiches that Dobby had brought for them and drinking mugs of strong builder's tea to keep themselves going. Eventually Ginny had started yawning often enough that she couldn't even get through a sentence without her eyes squeezing shut again, and she'd asked whether they were planning to stay at it all night. Hermione was willing to let them give up for the night—but she still wasn't willing to let Malfoy out of her sight. After some bickering about who was to keep an eye on him and how, they gave up out of exhaustion and ended up bunking down in the lounge itself, with an alarm cast over the door that would send up an unholy wail if anyone were to open it—to come in or to sneak out.

Ginny collected cushions from some of the other chairs dotting the room and made her herself a little nest close to the fireplace, conjuring a blanket with a neat spell. When Harry looked impressed, she conjured up a few more for the others. Hermione stayed sitting up on her sofa, though she did allow herself to lean into Ron's shoulder and rest her head there, curling her feet under her. Ron wrapped one of Ginny's blanket around the two of them, then settled back as best he could, his long legs stretched out under the low table in front of him. And Harry and Draco took the other couch, wrapped under two separate blankets, one red and one green.

Hermione kept her eyes open as long as she could, watching through lowered lashes in case Malfoy tried anything. But all she saw was how Harry nodded off and sagged into the blond, eventually sliding over until he ended up with his head and shoulders on Malfoy's lap, and how Malfoy reached down to brush through her friend's messy black hair, tugging his glasses loose and holding them cradled gently in one hand before his own head eventually fell back, eyes shuttered, face slack and at peace.

* * *

THEY WERE SPRAWLED ACROSS DRACO'S bed in the dungeon room, books scattered about them but mostly forgotten. There hadn't been anything particularly useful in any of them anyhow. Harry was lying with his cheek on Draco's chest, listening to the heart beating under his ear. From time to time, the other boy's thin fingers would slide through his hair, the only sign that he was still even awake. It was late afternoon on Christmas eve, and they'd been down here since lunch, when Hermione had finally agreed to allow the two of them out of her sight—though it had required handing over the Marauder's Map for his friends to monitor, as well as a tracking charm cast on Harry's person that would alert her if he got within 100 meters of Hogwarts boundaries.

"I think we should talk to Snape," Harry said in a quiet voice, as if he could ease the words into the spaces between the silence without breaking anything.

"It's Christmas eve," Draco muttered, his voice rumbling through the chest that Harry's face was still pressed against. "Can you imagine a worse Christmas gift than to spend the day answering Snape's suspicions?" His fingers teased through Harry's hair again. "It can wait another day. If he knows something useful, he'll still know it after Christmas. If he doesn't then...then it won't change anything anyway. You can put me in a damn coma. At least then I won't have to see any more of your atrocious fashion choices."

Harry smiled against the fine knit of Draco's sweater. The blond had been teasing him about his Christmas outfit ever since he'd come back from a brief escape from the prefect's lounge to shower and change. Harry had tried to pick out his best clothes, knowing there was meant to be a fancy dinner that night for all the students to celebrate Christmas eve, but of course even his best clothes weren't anything to be particularly proud of. His red sweatshirt was hand-knitted by Mrs. Weasley, and while it was warm and made with love, even he knew it wasn't what anyone would consider stylish. And his worn pair of jeans were in even worse shape, since he hadn't had the chance to go out shopping even in Diagon Alley in the last year. He certainly never had any Muggle money to spend on clothes, even if he were able to visit any shops during the summer, which he wasn't.

His smile faded again, and the only sound he could hear in the room was the heart beating beneath him, reassuringly steady and slow at the moment. _There can't only be a week left._

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" Harry asked.

"Tell you what?"

"All of it."

It was odd to feel and hear the chuckle that shook Draco's body beneath his face. "Because I hadn't become completely suicidal? Even if I'd thought you might believe me, you told me that Voldemort could get into your head. You're the last person in the world I should have told anything to."

"Oh."

Draco's fingers squeezed, tugging slightly at his hair. "Yes. 'Oh.'" He rolled over slightly, wrapping both arms around Harry now. "Listen. You can worry and tear at your hair and wail over the injustice of losing so much fine young perfection far too soon tomorrow. But for tonight, let's just...forget it all." He breathed deeply into the dark hair tickling his nose. "Okay? For the rest of the night, let's pretend there is no tomorrow. There's just you and me, and nothing else to think about but that."

_* * *_

EVENTUALLY IT WAS TIME THAT they really needed to go to the dinner if they didn't want Hermione to come hunting for them, though neither of them had been in much rush to start moving. But Draco did finally sit up, rolling off the bed and going to his wardrobe as he threw back, "Most days I don't make a fuss, but really, Harry. This is the Christmas Eve Dinner. I can't be seen with you if you insist on looking like you've just escaped from the poorhouse."

The Slytherin rooted briefly through his own closet, then threw a pair of slacks and a sweater at him. Harry grabbed at the clothes and realized it was the same outfit he had 'liberated' after his last unscheduled sleepover. Draco snorted when he saw his face, "At least we know they'll fit, you little thief. Now put them on." Harry looked up at his boyfriend in alarm, but Draco only waved at him, a smirk playing about his lips as they both pretended that they could simply tease and squabble like any other night.

Harry knew logically that Draco had seem him nude before. Once. But stripping down to his underwear in the broad daylight was still enough to make him flush with embarrassment, especially when Draco was watching him the whole time with that knowing gleam in his eye. Harry pushed himself off the bed and kept his eyes on the clothes Draco had thrown at him, refusing to give Draco the satisfaction of making him turn away. But he could feel his face growing hot, as much as he was trying to keep it from doing so, as he unbuttoned his jeans and shimmied them down his hips. He stepped out of the trousers and took the time to fold them and place them on the chair before picking up Draco's slacks. His boxers still covered anything that needed covering, but that didn't help him feel any less exposed. Especially when Draco suggested, "You know, I don't think those trousers will really fit properly over boxers."

Harry glared at him and said crossly, "They'll fit well enough, _thanks_."

Draco stepped across the few feet separating them and placed his hands on Harry's hips, his fingers digging into the thin cotton as he pulled the boy close. He pressed his lips to Harry's chastely and said, "Mm. You look delicious." The fine black slacks dropped from Harry's nerveless grip, and Draco laughed, "Or you will once you get into my clothes. So hurry it up!" He ducked down to snag the trousers from the floor and threw them back to Harry, grinning.

His face absolutely flaming, the Gryffindor snatched at the black cloth and quickly pulled the trousers on, zipping and buttoning them as hastily as he dared. He pulled off the red knit sweater (no giant aitch on this one, at least) and dropped it on top of his jeans. Without even risking a look at the Slytherin, he pulled on the borrowed grey turtleneck as well.

It got caught on his glasses—which he hadn't bothered to remove—and Harry could hear Draco snickering again. He struggled ineffectually and felt like a total arse when Draco had to help him hold the neck of the shirt out so that it could pass unhindered over his glasses. But once he emerged from the shirt, tousled and red with embarrassment, Draco smiled at him and there was no mockery in it. "Perfect," he said, before drawing the flustered Gryffindor in for a deep kiss, and Harry soon forgot his embarrassment.

When Draco finally stepped away to make sure he was satisfied with his own appearance, Harry straightened his borrowed clothes with a cautious sense of pride. He knew that he looked good enough in them to be seen with Draco, who—despite being a Death Eater and a Slytherin and his hundred of other undeniable faults—still usually made Harry feel as awkward as he had at Madame Malkin's that first day they'd met. It might take raiding the other boy's closet to make it possible, but at least Harry would hold his own next to the ice prince on this one night of pretend and fantasy.

He sighed in exasperation as Draco insisted on messing with his hair, but he didn't protest, since it always seemed to please the boy so much. Harry didn't think Draco was even aware of the pleased glint he got in his eye when he tried to arrange the impossible black strands into some kind of look that satisfied him. Once the Slytherin looked happy, and while Harry resisted making a snarky comment about what a ponce he was, they seemed ready to go. But then Draco held up a hand. He went over to his trunk and lifted the top, rummaging inside a moment to pull something silvery out. Dangling from his fingers was a fine silver band, smooth and barely a quarter-inch wide. He brought it back over to Harry and let it spill into his hand.

The Gryffindor stared at the gleaming necklace and noticed that the clasp was actually shaped like a dragon, its jaw hinged to lock onto the chain's other end. He opened his mouth, but Draco spoke first: "It's a bit early—and you _did_ threaten me with Snape—but...it's still Christmas."

Draco smirked into those shocked green eyes as Harry tried to protest, "But I didn't get you any..." Well. He had got Draco something once, but he'd lost it. And there hadn't been any more shopping trips after that one. The blond was smiling, though, as he took the chain back from where it had pooled in Harry's hand. He held it up questioningly between his two slender hands, asking permission, and Harry nodded mutely.

"Doesn't matter," Draco said as he stepped behind the boy. He let the chain drop down into the front of the high-necked shirt. "It's not even a proper gift really. It's rather gauche to give someone a hand-me-down belonging—as you might've guessed by the dragon theme. But I wanted you to have it in case..." His hands dipped down the back of what was rightfully his shirt, as he carefully hooked the tiny clasp at the back of the chain. "Well, just in case."

Draco slipped his arms around Harry's waist, resting his chin on the other boy's shoulder. He could feel his own heart pounding with nerves as he waited to see what Harry would say or do, a part of him almost hoping Harry _would_ be suspicious. But the Gryffindor only relaxed into his hold, one hand coming up to press over the silver chain hidden beneath the fine knit of the dark shirt, and Draco felt a sick confusion of relief and dread.

* * *

SINCE EVERYONE HAD BEEN FORCED to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas, the staff had planned a bit more than the usual small dinner. Of course, that was before Dumbledore and half the staff had been caught up in trying to hunt down a possible magical threat, but beyond a bit of decorating, all the real work of providing the meal was carried out by the castle's house elves, and so the holiday dinner had gone on as planned.

This year, the celebration was to start at five and last until nine that night, with music, food, crackers, and games. Harry and Draco walked into the Great Hall to find it edged with a forest of spun-sugar trees that shone like clear ice. The entire perimeter of the room was filled with the crystalline structures, which were glittering with tiny fluttering fairies and globular sugared fruits. The sky was overcast outside, and inside the room enchanted snow seemed to be falling, though none of it ever reached the revelers.

They weren't the very last to arrive, but most of the school was already present by the time the pair finally showed up. While Harry looked around at the decorations appreciatively, a large number of the girls were eyeing the two of them in the same manner. Draco rolled his eyes, used to the stares, and nudged Harry to get the boy's attention. "Come on, Potter, where shall we sit?"

Much like had been done at the few school dances, the room had been divvied up into smaller tables, the long house tables gone as if they'd never been there at all. Harry led the way over to a round little table by the edge of the icy forest. He hadn't even paused to look for his Gryffindor friends. While Harry held their spot, Draco stopped at the refreshments table and got two steaming-hot crystal mugs of butterbeer. After winding his way back through the crowed, he slid one in front of Harry and resumed his own chair.

"So," he started, as he swirled his drink, "I noticed when you were stripping for me—oh, I'm sorry, I mean, _changing_ for me—that you're not carrying that Muggle weapon of yours these days. That gun."

Harry shot him a faintly amused glare and said, "Thank you for reminding me of my stunning performance. And, no, I left it off tonight."

Draco smiled through his hooded eyes and said darkly, "Oh, it _was_ a stunning performance." Harry's cheekbones glowed, a faint echo of before, and Draco continued, "Feeling more secure within the castle these days? Or do you just think today is safe, because it's a holiday?"

The Gryffindor sighed, "I know, I know. You're right. It's not like Voldemort would declare some holiday armistice. I shouldn't let my guard down just because I think it would be inconceivable to attack someone at Christmas." He looked down into his cup. "I'll probably go back to carrying it. At least until I get a new wand, it's better than nothing."

Harry's eyes stayed downcast, and Draco kept his face and voice blank as he said, "I wish you would." Harry glanced up, surprise flickering through his eyes. Draco allowed his lips to twitch into something like a smirk, though it was more sad then amused. "I might not always be around to keep you out of trouble." He took a long drag of his butterbeer, looking away from the Gryffindor, which saved him from having to see pained look that flashed across Harry's face.

"I'll be more careful," Harry promised. "Even around the castle." He watched the Slytherin's face as Draco continued to stare off into the crowd, holding his mug tight in both hands. Harry reached out and dared to touch one of those hands for a moment. "I promise. I'll keep it on me from now on."

Gray eyes flashed back to his face. "You promise?" Harry nodded, and Draco finally gave a tight little smile. "Then you'd better keep your word. You're supposed to be one of the good guys, after all. You're not allowed to break a promise."

They moved onto lighter subjects and talked instead about the other diners in the Great Hall. Harry had been quite surprised when they first starting hanging out to find out that the Slytherin's cunning also involved being incredibly observant of both the staff and students, and he probably knew about more scandals than Lavender and the Patil twins combined. Now Draco smiled maliciously and said with relish, "Did you know that there's a rumor going 'round that Blaise Zabini is really a girl?"

* * *

RON AND HERMIONE WERE ALSO trying to enjoy their first sort-of date as a couple, but it was hard to feel the normal amount of nervous excitement with everything they'd learned over the past 24 hours. Even as they tried to act as though all they could think of was one another, though, they couldn't have missed Harry's entrance with the Slytherin. Everyone had gotten rather used to seeing the two boys together over the last couple months, but that didn't stop their arrival from causing a momentary hush, especially when Harry was dressed in Draco's well-tailored clothes once again. Hermione couldn't deny that they looked good on Harry—even if they did belong to a Death Eater.

 _Maybe he can keep the clothes after Malfoy breaks his heart_ _,_ Hermione thought uncharitably. _Again._

Ron caught her hand and held onto it, drawing her eyes away from the pair of boys. "Just ignore them if it's going to upset you."

Hermione gave him a grateful smile, but it twisted up with worry again in moments. "Are you really fine with all this?" she asked. "With what we know now..."

Ron looked over at his best mate, who was leaning close in conversation with that white-blond head. "I don't know to know what to think. I had a bit of a talk with Malfoy yesterday, shockingly, and I do think he's genuine about Harry—weird as that might be. But if he's really...well, _you know..._ " He squeezed Hermione's hand, now that he could do that, and told her, "Never mind. Let's not worry about it tonight. Tonight's just about you and me, and we're going to have a good time. Malfoy can wait till tomorrow."

* * *

ALL IN ALL, THE DINNER passed cheerily. Harry and Draco were left to themselves, most their schoolmates giving their table a wide berth. Even Harry's few (but relentless) remaining fans didn't want to stop by if it meant dealing with Malfoy. Harry grinned at the blond, who was wearing a black beret that had come out of a cracker, and told him, "See you finally come in useful for something!"

Draco laughed sarcastically and said, "Oh, put on your hat, Potter." Harry's cracker had yielded a wondrously gaudy sombrero that had to be at least three foot across and had bobbles hanging around the edge.

"Ugh, no thanks. You can ponce around and pretend you're French, but count me out of the exotic fun."

Draco raised an eyebrow at Harry and said, "Pretend? _Moi? Pas question_ ," and he proceeded to scold and curse Harry in what sounded—to the English-speaking boy—like impressively fluent French.

Harry had a silly grin plastered on his face as he asked, "What the hell did you just say? Do you really speak French?"

Draco rolled his eyes, as if he couldn't believe the stupidity of the question, but he was enjoying himself as he explained in a cool tone, "The Malfoys _are_ French, you know. Does it sound like a very English name, Mr. _Potter?_ Naturally I was raised speaking French as all Malfoys are. And you do not want me to translate what I just said."

Harry's grin widened, and he needled the boy, "Oh, now I really do. Spill, Malfoy." Harry would never learn that Draco was right about these things, and by the time the blond had rattled off his speech in English, Harry was flaming red again. "You have such a...fertile imagination, Malfoy. And maybe it's different for the French, but I think some of that would be illegal here in England."

Draco was actually more pleased that he had told the Gryffindor what he'd said, thanks to his delightful embarrassment. He leaned over and whispered something incomprehensible in Harry's ear. The boy pulled back a few inches and licked his lips to ask in an almost fearful voice, "And what does that mean?"

Draco gestured him back close and translated softly into his ear, "I can't wait to see you naked again on the silk sheets of my bed." He quickly nipped at the Gryffindor's earlobe before the boy jerked away.

After a brief coughing fit, Harry looked up at Draco with his cheeks positively burning. He asked in a scandalized voice, "And where did you learn to say a thing like that?!"

Malfoy smiled wickedly. "I had _wonderful_ tutors." He leaned back in his chair and watched Harry gulp his butterbeer through slitted eyes as he drawled, "So. Are you about ready to call it a night, or is it a bit _hard_ to leave right now?" Harry choked on his drink, and the Slytherin didn't even try to restrain his smirk. The people near them were beginning to shoot them strange looks, but Draco didn't give a damn. This was the last night he would ever have with his delightful, naïve Gryffindor—possibly the last night of his sixteen and a half years—and he was going to savor every moment of it.

Harry hissed angrily at him, "Leave off the comments, Draco, or I will tie you to your bed and torture you."

The Slytherin bit his lip, but how could he resist such an opening? He snickered as he asked Harry, "Is that a promise?"

The brilliant green eyes nearly crossed when Harry realized the implications of _that_. He grabbed the cloak that Draco had luckily made him bring and said in a stiff voice, "I'm going to get some air." Draco didn't say anything, just waved him on as he bit his other hand, trying not to cackle too loudly. The surrounding students were definitely staring now and quite a few were wondering if Draco Malfoy wasn't a bit drunk, as well as why Harry Potter had stalked off clutching his cloak around him.

Wiping the wetness from his eyes, Draco shoved himself up from his chair to follow Harry, swirling his own heavy black cloak around him as he went. He found the dark-haired boy on the deserted front steps of the school and sat behind him, stretching his long legs on either side of the Gryffindor Seeker. No one else was out to see them, and who even cared at this point?

It had been a pretty good day, as far as last days went. _I think I would've liked to go flying together one last time_ , he thought, draping his arms over Harry's chest as he settled himself around the other boy. _But this wasn't bad either_. Resting his chin on the Gryffindor's shoulder, he asked, "Are you really mad?"

Harry shook his head mutely, and Draco knew that he was probably simply embarrassed—by what had been said and by his reaction to it. He didn't want any sour feelings about this night, though, so for once he didn't mock Harry for his innocence. Leaning his forehead against that black hair, he said softly, "You know, it's perfectly natural to react to teasing like that. Hell, I'd wonder more if you didn't. No need to be embarrassed."

Harry shook his head, though, letting himself lean into Draco in return. "It's not just that." Draco felt his pulse pick up as he waited for what Harry would say. "I mean, I was embarrassed—but I wasn't just embarrassed. I didn't really want you to stop. The truth is that I wanted—I _want_ to—to..."

Draco's breath caught in his throat. He was quite sure Harry was talking about sex. About wanting to have sex with him. He had to take a deep breath to try to get some oxygen to his brain. Draco was a sixteen-year-old boy, and he might be dead tomorrow. Of course, he wanted to have sex. But with Harry, it wouldn't just be sex. To a Gryffindor, it would be _making love_ , and Draco didn't need to leave the boy any more broken than he probably already would.

His voice was steady but unusually gentle as told the boy in front of him, "Well, that's natural as well. But no need to rush into anything you might regret."

Harry turned slightly so that he could see the blond in the faint moonlight. Then he shocked Draco by saying, "I think what I would really regret would be missing the chance when I'd had it." Draco shook his head mutely. He couldn't do this, could he? He couldn't let himself do this. Even if he might die tomorrow, he couldn't be that awful of a person. _Even I'm not that terrible. Even I can't be that selfish._

Stamping down on his own urges, Draco had to swallow hard before he could lie to Harry. "We've still got until New Year. You aren't missing anything just because we don't rush into anything stupid tonight."

Harry smiled at him, but there was something so pained in it that Draco couldn't imagine smiling back. "I thought we were pretending that there is no tomorrow. If there's no tomorrow, then tonight is all I've got."

The Slytherin took a shaky breath and closed his eyes, burying his face against that messy black hair. Harry was asking him for it. Harry wanted him, and gods forgive him, because he wanted Harry. As much as he'd ever wanted anything. He wanted this night to never end, for the next day to never ever arrive, for reality to be denied just a little bit longer. Even a Malfoy's self-control had its limits. _Yes,_ he thought, as the last thread of his control snapped, _I am that terrible. I am that selfish._

"All right."

Harry pulled away, and Draco looked up to meet those green eyes. They shone in night, bright with the fear that this night might really be all they would ever have. "You'll give me tonight?"

Draco blinked up at the cold stars and said distantly, "I'd give you forever I could, Harry."

* * *

DRACO HAD TAKEN HIM BY the hand and pulled him to his feet. They slipped back into the entrance hall, but no one was around to see the clasped hands beneath their voluminous cloaks. It was nearly eight, and dinner was probably winding down to desert. Once the last of the sweets had been cleared away, the whole school would be filled with the milling students again. Before that could happen, they retreated back to Draco's room—but once they got there, both boys were overcome with awkward uncertainty. After you'd decided something like this, how did you actually go about it?

Pulling the door to their secret room shut, Draco looked over at the Gryffindor, who was standing stock-still in the middle of the room. He walked over to the boy and laced their fingers together again. He had to clear his throat once or twice before he managed get the words out to ask, "Do you understand how this works?" Harry nodded shortly but didn't say anything. The Slytherin asked him, "Do you...have a preference?"

Harry burned with embarrassment, but he knew what the other boy was asking. He raised one hand to brush the blond's cheek, his eyes wide behind his glasses, "I...I think I want you inside me."

The Slytherin nodded wordlessly, his turn to be silent as he gently removed those round-framed glasses. Harry pressed a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth and laughed nervously, "And maybe we can try something different next time." They both smiled and willingly pretended there would be a next time. They kissed softly, tongues gliding over lips as they lightly explored each other. It was more hesitant than they'd been since their very first kisses, as they slowly helped one another undress—silent except for the rustling of cloth and the sounds they could elicit from each other.

Harry edged onto the bed and pulled Draco down as well. The blond climbed onto the bed with him and whispered into Harry's ear, "See, I got what I wanted anyway: you, naked, on my silk sheets."

The Gryffindor laughed delightfully, and Draco felt free enough to show his ignorance. He sounded impossibly earnest as he admitted, "I don't really know what I'm doing, Potter."

Harry laughed again and said, "Neither do I, Malfoy. But I'm sure we'll figure it out."

* * *

HARRY WOKE UP ALONE IN Draco's bed. Feeling the unfamiliar smoothness of the silky sheets beneath his hands, he rolled over and sat up, blinking as he looked around the room with his blurry vision. He winced as he felt sore in places that he hadn't even known he had, but it wasn't entirely unpleasant. It reminded him of the night before, and that certainly hadn't been unpleasant.

There had been uncomfortable parts, of course, which might have been painful if not for the pleasure that accompanied them. And there had been awkward moments, when the boys had to figure out just what they were doing. But they had laughed at themselves and had gotten much better after the first time. (And they had woken a couple times during the night to 'practice'.)

The last time had been shortly before dawn, when the artificial windows had just begun to lighten. It had been so gentle and slow that Harry had been aware of the tears on his face. Draco's touch had been like worship. Like good-bye. Now he lay alone in the Slytherin's bed, clinging to the memory, and he knew with sudden inexplicable certainty that he had been right. Draco wasn't just gone to the bathroom or to get breakfast. He was gone.

Harry pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, trying to breathe past the thickness that was suddenly choking him. _You said we had till New Year_. But a part of him had known it wasn't true. 'Pretend there is no tomorrow?' It hadn't ever been pretend for Draco, and somewhere deep down Harry had known. He'd seen the tiny hesitations, the way Draco's eyes slid away, and he'd known that Draco hadn't ever believed they would find a way to save him from Voldemort. He'd felt the desperation in Draco. He just hadn't wanted to admit that their time might already be up.

_Are you with him now?_

Even though he knew he was completely alone, it was still somehow too exposed to walk around the small room naked, and so he tugged off the sheet that he and Draco had wrestled with the night before. Pulling the green silk around him like a cloak, he shuffled over to Draco's wardrobe. His original clothes were still folded where they had been left before dinner, and the borrowed clothes he'd worn to the meal were strewn across the ground. The clothes Draco had been wearing were gone.

_Could you convince him to give you more time? Another chance?_

Harry found his boxers in the pile and pulled them on quickly. Next came the jeans that he had abandoned the previous afternoon. He hesitated, though, when he picked up the red sweater that he'd brought with him. Fingering the silver chain around his neck, he left the sweater on the chair and pulled open the wardrobe against the wall. It was the second time now that he had woken naked in the boy's room and gone in search of clothes. He settled on a plain but luxurious-feeling white sweater that looked shockingly bright against his black hair. It made his light honey-toned skin look darker, and as a result, his eyes shone like green bottle-glass when he looked at himself in the Draco's mirror. Most importantly, it smelled of Draco, still carrying a hint of the spicy aftershave the blond used, even though he looked like he shouldn't even need to shave.

_Is he hurting you right now?_

The boy he had just slept with might be with Voldemort at this moment, and there was absolutely nothing Harry could do about it. He put the clothes he'd borrowed the night before away in the wardrobe. He spread the sheet back on the wide bed and pulled the covers into place. He didn't even flush when he found the bottle of lubricant they'd conjured up the night before, only tucking it away in Draco's bedside stand. Then he looked around the tidy room, and he noticed at last the scrap of parchment folded in half on the window seat. Easing himself down upon the stone bench, Harry settled into Draco's usual place and held the small piece of paper in his hands.

He was afraid to unfold the plain paper, not sure if it would be a more concrete farewell or explanation. But he nearly laughed at his own inflated imagination when he saw that there were only two words written in Draco's neat script, underlined for impact: " _Be careful_." He remembered his promise to the Slytherin that he would keep himself armed, that he would protect himself even around the school. But he didn't jump up immediately to get his gun. Instead he looked out the window at the grounds.

Harry was tempted to stay in this room. He wanted to stay safe and cocooned until dark fell again. Until Draco came back, or else the reality became undeniable. But he knew his friends would start a search party if he didn't get back to Gryffindor Tower soon. It was Christmas morning. Reluctantly, he got up and placed the paper back where he had found it, unable to take it with him. Picking up his red sweater again, he took one last look at the neat room and left.

* * *

HARRY HURRIED BACK TO GRYFFINDOR Tower, where only a few of the younger years were already up and excited about presents. He let himself quietly into the boys' dorm at the top of the tower, and gave himself a moment to look over his friends, still deep in sleep. He took a few deep breaths, trying to slip back into the life he'd lived in this tower, a life that Draco had never been a part of and where that had been okay. Gripping his hands into fists, he gave himself a little shake and pulled himself together.

After quickly tucking the gun he'd had locked up in his trunk into the holster at the back of his jeans, Harry clambered back to his feet and hollered at the other boys, "Wake up, you lazy gits! It's Christmas, and I know none of you got enough to drink last night to be _that_ pissed!"

He started throwing pillows and was greeted with disgruntled groans and a rather impressive roar from Seamus of "Potter, if you don't leave off, you're going to find yourself at the wrong end of a bat-bogey curse!"

Satisfied that the boys were at least awake now, Harry headed back down to the common room. He cut over to the girls' side of the tower and started climbing the stairs two at a time. As expected, the treads quickly tilted and the stairwell turned into a smooth chute within moments, but Harry was determined. And he ignored the siren that wailed throughout the entirety of Gryffindor Tower, probably waking up every single Gryffindor in the process. Grunting with the effort, he hoisted himself up the tower with the aid of the railing and the passably effective rubber soles on his trainers. When he arrived at the six-year girls' dorm room, he clung to the door jamb and knocked quickly, calling out, "Hermione, let me in! Hurry!" He heard quite a few shrieks through the door before Hermione pulled it open, looking shocked and flustered in her bright yellow dressing gown.

"Harry!" He offered her a smile, and she asked in exasperation, "How on Earth did you get up here?" She looked past him at the steep incline where the stairs ought to have been and noticed how he was clinging to the doorway. Hermione crossed her arms and said archly, "You know, it would serve you right if I shoved you out to tumble down five floors."

"Let me in, Hermione," he wheedled. "I don't have any untoward intentions—you know that better than anyone."

She laughed at that and stepped aside to let him step onto the thankfully level and steady ground, muttering, "That's certainly true enough." But she was relieved to see her best friend, really. She'd still uneasy about leaving him alone with Malfoy, and she'd never been more glad to be proven wrong if it meant Harry was here and smiling at her.

He walked into the room that was littered with posters, makeup, and back issues of _Witch Weekly_. "Morning, girls," he declared. "Happy Christmas." The others acted embarrassed and tried to brush through their messy hair, scolding Harry for surprising them like this. But they were obviously pleased as they preened, and Harry sat easily among them as he listened to their chatter and they pressed him for gossip about the other boys. He convinced them to come down to the common room, though they insisted on a half hour to get dressed and ready. Satisfied, Harry stepped out of the dorm and slid down the chute that the tower had become.

He arrived windblown and tousled in the common room and was immediately followed by a shrieking Ginny. She fell nearly upon him and asked brightly, "Morning, Harry. Did you sneak into the girls' dorms?"

He pulled her to her feet and scolded her for her assumption. "I didn't _sneak_ into the girls' dorms. I had to hoist myself all the way up there, and it was damn hard work." She laughed at him before she went to join Seamus (who was her beau for the moment) on the couch by the fire. Harry was left momentarily alone, and he felt his smile falter, worry immediately starting to gnaw again at the edges of the bright mood he'd forced himself to assume. He hurried over to rejoin Ginny and his friends.

Eventually, all of Gryffindor house had managed to stagger downstairs to the common room, woken by the alarm from the girls' dorms. Housemates and friends exchanged small gifts, and all the others had a good time, joking and feeling the holiday spirit take them as they toasted bread in the fire that was burning cheerfully, thanks to all the wrappings the students added to the blaze. It was odd to be spending the holiday at school instead of with their families, but it was all special in a way to spend it with their friends and nary an adult in sight. The Weasley twins had sent a big box of their newest creations (without telling Ron or Ginny what any of them did, of course), and there was a great deal of laughter as the Gryffindors discovered the effects of the various sweets and snacks together. But almost everyone was back to normal (except Neville, was still speaking in couplets) by the time they trooped down to the Great Hall for Christmas Lunch.

When the group of upper years that Harry was with burst in through the double doors, they found a much more grave hall than they had left the night before. The long house tables had been restored to their usual places, but no one was sitting at them. The students from the other houses were all huddled in the middle of the large hall, a mass of nervous whispers, and the Gryffindors quickly filtered in among the others. There was a lot of hurried muttering to try to update the last house on what was happening, and Harry and Ginny heard it from Luna: "There's some sort of illness running about. It's hit both the Muggle and the Wizarding world, though we've been the worst affected." The two Gryffindors shared a look.

Ginny held her friend's hands tightly and asked what more they knew. Loony Luna looked unusually serious as she said, "We don't really know anything else yet. The morning paper didn't even mention it, but a couple of students have had owls from family members. It seems like there have been deaths." She shook her head sadly and murmured, "It's surely a government conspiracy. Just horrible what they are doing to their own citizens these days." Harry could have laughed, if his heart hadn't been doing some odd in his chest. It felt like it might be tearing itself in two. _He'd been telling the truth. Draco_ _really was trying to do the right thing._

Everyone who didn't believe in mad conspiracy theories realized that this was likelier than not another move by Voldemort. And the glances in Harry's direction—which had begun with the attacks earlier that year—were more pointed than ever. Harry lifted his hand to grasp the silver chain around his neck. It was some comfort, and it was less alarming to the others than fingering the gun at his back would have been.

Dumbledore swept in through the small side door to the right of the staff table, and it took him no time to single Harry out from among the milling students and call the boy up to him with a gesture. Pinned down by all the expectant stares, Harry made his way up to the headmaster. Everyone cleared a path for him as he went, standing back and whispering as the Boy Who Lived passed them by. The walk felt impossibly long, but at last Harry reached Dumbledore—then, before the old man could say a word, Harry felt the silver necklace burn at his throat. The nausea he felt at the portkey's tug was nothing compared to the sick feeling of betrayal that swamped him as he disappeared from all Hogwarts' sight.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 17**

HARRY SLID BACK INTO REALITY in an unfamiliar room. It was wide and laced with shadows and filled with a poisonous presence that drove him straight to his knees. Before he could think to move or even reach for the gun at his back, he was struck with a curse that sent him sprawling flat onto his back.

Voldemort stepped forward to tower over the boy with a look of immense satisfaction. Years ago, Harry might have been able to endure the pain and stand up straight to face his Death—but after their last little encounter, Harry's reaction to the Dark Lord had only grown in intensity. He clutched at his forehead, groaning through clenched teeth as he tried to make his eyes focus on the monster in front of him.

Draco's mouth was dry as bone as he watched the scene unfold. Voldemort kneeled by the Gryffindor and laid one pale hand on the boy's face, sending Harry skittering backwards to escape his touch. Draco heard the little cry of pain that escaped from Harry, lying on the floor, and he was forcibly reminded of how Harry had trembled and cried out beneath him just that morning. He recognized distantly that Harry was wearing one of his shirts and wondered what had happened after he had snuck out of the bed to take his own portkey to the Dark Lord's side. He wondered if Harry had heeded his final warning. He would find out soon enough.

The blond held himself back in the shadows as he felt power flare to life in Harry, like a sudden flame in the dark. The Gryffindor boy glared hatefully at Voldemort, and his eyes practically seemed lit from within, his skin shining with sweat and magic, his body fought to keep him alive. But he was expending so much energy to combat the Dark Lord's presence that he was shaking and sweating simply lying on the ground, his eyes burning deep holes in his wan face.

The pain was obvious and undeniable, and Draco—for a flicker of a moment—almost felt his control slipping. _I could have told him. We could have_ _—_

But then Voldemort spoke, and the moment was gone. Draco locked down his emotions behind an iron wall, keeping his mask in place exactly as he had done since he'd rejoined the Dark Lord on the Malfoy grounds that morning.

"I told you last time," Voldemort spoke almost tenderly to the quivering figure on the floor. "Didn't I? _Harry._ " Those unnaturally long-fingered hands brushed the hair back from Harry's scar, and the boy seemed to choke as he stared at the monster in horror. Draco felt nauseated as he watched his master touch the Gryffindor in the same way he so often had. Voldemort gripped Harry tightly by the chin and whispered in his ear, "But today I will deal my greatest blow yet. And now I can kill you at last, Harry Potter."

Draco could see the choices running through Harry's eyes, and he stepped out of the gloom for the first time, cautioning sharply, "My Lord, Potter always carries at least one Muggle weapon on him, sometimes more. Shall I search him?"

The Dark Lord sound scornful as he spat, "No Muggle weapon could harm me." Despite his words though, he threw Harry to the ground at Draco's feet. The boy lay unmoving, facedown like a broken doll.

Reaching down, it was only as Draco had expected when Harry rolled quickly over and out of reach—drawing his gun as he moved. He pointed the pistol at Draco, and for a moment, the two of them stared into each other's eyes in shock, gazes locking as they had done in Draco's bed, as if nothing else existed in the world but each other. Somewhere far behind his defenses, Draco was almost surprised to note that there wasn't any anger in those green eyes. There was nothing but despair. Harry was staring because he could find nothing at all in Draco's face: no satisfaction, no regret, no hatred, and certainly no tender feelings. Nothing at all.

Had he been so wrong? Had Draco truly been that good of an actor? Had it all been a lie?

_Can I trust you, Malfoy?_

_I don't know. It depends on the question._

While Harry was still reeling, Draco himself called, " _Accio_ gun." The solid weight of the Muggle weapon was wrenched from Harry's fingers before he thought to tighten his grip. Empty-handed, he was forced to listen to Draco's familiar voice telling Voldemort, "You see, My Lord? The fool doesn't know when to give up."

Draco slid the gun into the pocket of his own robes, keeping his wand in one hand as he searched Harry for any other weapons. Harry couldn't help flinching from that familiar touch while the cold Slytherin smoothed his hands over Harry's sides and around his waist, never revealing a hint of an expression. Harry couldn't look again into those dead eyes. He couldn't bear to.

_I don't really know what I'm doing, Potter._

_Neither do I, Malfoy. But I'm sure we'll figure it out._

As the thin hands ran down his legs, Harry wanted to scream—not only because of the pain that Voldemort's presence was causing him but because of the vicious mockery of those touches. He felt disgusted in his own body as he thought of what he'd done the previous night, and now at last he was able to conjure up hatred for his Slytherin lover. He raised bitter, stagnant eyes to meet Draco's, and for the first time, he thought he saw something flicker in that blank face. Perhaps it could have been a warning. Harry didn't care.

_Remember what I told you, Potter?_

_No. Will you finally tell me?_

Draco saw the decision in Harry's face half a second before the fist came flying at his own head. Before it could connect, the dark-haired boy was thrown back across the room—though Voldemort had used his wand to exert that force, where Harry or Draco might have tended to wave a hand. Reaching down, the Dark Lord picked Harry up by the front of that white sweater, holding the short boy up so that his toes barely scrabbled against the floor. Harry's face crumpled as he tried to twist away from the burning pain of Voldmort's hand against his chest, a thin keening sound escaping from his mouth as he bashed against the arm holding him.

"Are you upset with dear Draco?" Voldemort asked, ignoring the Slytherin boy behind him as he watched Harry struggle. "I understand the two of you have become quite close recently. I suppose it isn't such a surprise. Just as you have been Dumbledore's toy, he will be mine. He is young, intelligent, and attractive. He will be my tool—the charming opiate for the masses, a perfect example of Pureblood superiority."

As Voldemort gloated, Draco pulled the Muggle gun out of his pocket again and hefted its weight, testing the feel of it in his hand. He slid his index finger over the trigger, seeing at once how it could be pulled back to fire the simple projectile weapon.

Harry watched without really understanding as Draco carefully raised the gun and pointed it towards himself and Voldemort. The blond raised his right hand to held steady the left, eyes narrowing as he took aim down the barrel of the handgun. The dead mask slipped at last, a look of determined hatred coming to life in those gleaming eyes, and before Voldemort even noticed Harry's diverted attention, Draco had pulled the trigger decisively. The final moment that would change his life had arrived, the moment that would change the whole world—

And nothing happened.

Confused realization still crashing around him, Harry thought wildly, _He didn't know about the charm._ The safety charm that would allow no one else to fire the gun but Harry. It was impossible to know for sure what Draco was doing. Harry couldn't be certain who that shot had been aimed at. But Voldemort was turning back to Draco, having heard the futile click of that jammed trigger. Harry's feet hit the floor again, as the Slytherin's arms fell back to his waist and he stared down at the gun in his hand, a sort of hopeless resignation settled across his face. He didn't even glance up at the furious Dark Lord.

Voldemort raised his wand at the blond, his mouth twisting as he shaped the first syllables, " _Ava—_ "

Harry knew without a doubt what curse was rolling off that poisonous tongue, and he closed his eyes. He couldn't watch Voldemort use the Killing Curse on Draco, and he didn't want to see where the Slytherin would point that gun. With no time to think about his decision, Harry threw every last shred of power he had at Voldemort with the simple intent to make him stop. Cancelling the charm on the gun with a jerk of his hand, Harry screamed louder than Voldemort's curse, " _Now, Draco!_ "

* * *

THE SILENCING SPELL ON THE gun far outranked any Muggle contraption, but it did nothing to hide the wet, meaty thuds of bullets hitting a body, tearing through flesh and exploding cartilage and bone in their wake. Draco emptied the entire nine-bullet clip into Voldemort's chest cavity. The inhuman body faltered, the dying man's curse still half-formed on his lips but no air left in his lungs to complete it, no lungs left intact to draw air.

Harry could feel the power that was warring against his hold, and he felt it slip, stuttering like a dying engine. Through that connection, he knew Voldemort was scrambling to heal himself—to close up the unbelievable holes in his body and knit back together the shredded mess that had once held his heart and lungs. But the Boy Who Lived didn't let go, and Voldemort couldn't move as his lifeblood pumped from his body, slowing as the pulp that had once been his heart faltered and stalled.

There was a flash of the worst pain of his life, worse even than the Cruciatus, as Harry felt the last of Voldemort's power flood through the bond that had always connected them, pouring out of the dying man and into him with one last surge of burning pain in his scar. And then nothing. It didn't hurt any longer, though Harry still couldn't seem to breathe for several more seconds. It didn't hurt any more, but he still somehow felt like his skin was on fire. He let go at last, and the limp body slumped ignobly to the ground.

Harry opened his eyes.

Draco was staring at the body and looked even more horrified than before, if that were possible. The gun fell from his hands, hitting the ground with a loud clatter that echoed in the silence of the room. Then, as if he had remembered that he wasn't alone, he seemed to close up upon himself. He straightened his shoulders as he gazed down at the remains of Lord Voldemort, the master he'd been bound to serve. Then he strode over to one of the dark walls, and Harry heard the singing of metal as the blond pulled a long sword from the ornate hooks it had been mounted on. It seemed to more decorative than functional, but Draco clearly had other plans. He pointed his wand at the blade, muttering a sharpening spell as he walked back across the room.

Muttering under his breath, " _Sans tache_ ," Draco brought the sword down in a gleaming arc, the light flowing like liquid along the metal as he permanently separated Voldemort's unnatural head from the body he'd already had revived once. There would be no easy way to bring him back this time.

Leaving the quivering blade imbedded in the hardwood floor, Draco staggered over to Harry, his gait stiff, and grabbed the boy by his thin shoulders. Harry didn't react, as unmoving and still as Voldemort had been when they had killed him. Draco's eyes bore into that blank, staring face, but there was still no reaction from those green eyes, and it was difficult to believe that this was the same boy that had been with him in the most intimate ways possible a mere four or five hours before.

It was only when Draco spoke to him that Harry showed some sign of cognizance. "It's over," Draco said, voice hoarse, and Harry blinked. He looked at Draco like it was the first time he'd seen him that day.

He opened his mouth to croak, "Draco..."

But the Slytherin leaned in before he could say anything more, speaking right into the other boy's ear as he whispered, "I'm sorry." There were so many things to choose from that Harry wasn't which one the boy was apologizing for, until Draco pulled back again and reached up with one hand to stroke the necklace that still shone at Harry's throat. "Good-bye." Then the silver burned against Harry's skin once again, and the world dissolved into a dark wash of colors.

* * *

HE WAS ON THE FRONT steps of the school. The sun was still high in the sky, and it couldn't have been more than half an hour since he'd left. Harry glanced at the school entrance, where everyone was surely panicking about what had happened, and then he turned away. He sat heavily on the broad stone steps, just like he had the previous evening.

But this time, Draco would not come trailing after him to sweep him into a warm embrace.

Voldemort was _dead_. There was no denying it. Harry had been there, had held the dying man in place as he'd bled out onto the floor, had felt that life flickering out for himself. The monster who had ruined Harry's life time and again, who had made Harry who he was today, who had taken away his family and his future, was gone. The Wizarding world could be free again—and it was all thanks to Draco Malfoy?

Harry stared out at the gold-kissed snow, left rumpled and uneven by the tracks of students. A murder of crows took flight, screeching and wheeling madly, and Harry understood... _nothing._ He couldn't seem to hold a single complete thought in his head. He couldn't make sense of what had just happened. Had Draco been planning it all along—or had it only been some desperate, impulsive ploy? Had he given Harry the necklace, then held him close all night and murmured sweet words into his skin, knowing all along that he was going to send Harry to Voldemort the next morning, knowing it might mean his death?

How much of it had been a lie?

Had much of it had been true?

Had any of it been true?

And why, when all of it was over, had he stayed behind in that dark room, sending Harry back alone?

Harry was still sitting on those steps, unmoving and unseeing, when McGonagall came hurtling out the front doors. She stumbled to a halt and exclaimed, "Mr. Potter! What on Earth are you doing out here?!" He didn't think that question warranted much response, but he allowed her to bundle him inside. They headed for the Great Hall, and only then did Harry dig in his heels, realizing he might be thrust face-to-face with that great crowd of students again. Luckily, the others had all been sent back to their houses, and the Great Hall was curiously echoing with only a small gaggle of teachers present.

Before he knew it, Harry was surrounded by the desperate adults, and Mad-Eye Moody's voice cut through the crowd, "Potter, did you learn anything? Do you know the Dark Lord's location? His next move?"

Harry could feel hysteria fizzing through him like champagne bubbles, and his words were tinged with that dizzy emotion as he said, "Next move?" He didn't seem to have full control of what he was saying, as he found his own voice saying for him, "He's not moving at all, not anymore."

There was a shocked hush, and it was McGonagall who asked severely, "Just what are you trying to imply, Mr. Potter?"

A wild smile tugged at his lips. "I'm not _implying_ anything. I'm _telling_ you: Voldemort is dead."

His skin was as cold as Draco's, and his vision was filled with the dark shadows of that horrid room, then suddenly there were hands holding him up. Harry blinked up at Lupin and watched the man's lips shape words, though his voice seemed to come from far away. The old tinny radio in Lupin's throat was saying, "I think he's in shock. We should get him to the hospital wing." Then he was airborne, but it was nothing like the smooth action of his Firebolt. More like riding on the back of a hippogriff. _Whatever happened to Buckbeak,_ he thought, even his own thoughts feeling distant and fuzzy, _after Sirius was gone? I wonder if Voldemort had any pets... Nagini maybe..._

Professor Lupin hurried to the infirmary with the teenaged boy in his arms, and Harry slowly regained his wits. He was able to recognize Madame Pomfrey when she bustled out to greet them, not at all surprised to see her most frequent patient back again. "Honestly," she tutted as she directed them to put Harry on a bed before she dropped a heap of conjured blankets on top of him, "I don't know why we even bother with house dormitories if the students insist on spending all their time down here anyway!"

She forced a calming potion into Harry before Dumbledore appeared, stepping out of the fireplace in a whirl of elaborate robes. He strode straight over to stop alongside the bed where Harry was surrounded by Lupin and the others. He smiled down at the boy and said softly, "Harry. I am so very glad to see you alive and well. I hear that you have some news as well?"

Harry no longer had any urge to smile. He nodded and pried his mouth open to tell the headmaster, "Yes. Voldemort is dead. Shot with bullets. Head removed from his body."

Dumbledore's eyes gleamed with triumph for a moment, then he asked Harry, "But how did you get to wherever you were—and back? We searched the whole school, and we found that one other student was missing—Draco Malfoy."

Despite all that had happened, despite all the questions that Harry had no answers for, Harry didn't like the old man's tone. His own tone was short as he explained, "I was taken by a portkey that Malfoy gave me. He was there, as well. It was Malfoy who killed Voldemort."

It was rare thing to shock Albus Dumbledore into speechlessness, but Harry had succeeded for once. A part of him wished desperately that Draco had been there to see it, because it would have amused him to end. The rest of him just wished desperately that Draco was there so that Harry could shake him and then probably hex him and then finally force him to explain everything that Harry couldn't make sense of without him. But then the Headmaster's expression settled into a look of weary disappointment, and Harry asked in a spurt of annoyance, "What?"

Dumbledore steepled his fingers and said sadly, "If that be the case, we cannot assume that Voldemort is truly dead."

Outrage caused Harry's voice to break as he exclaimed, " _What!_ After I've told you that he died? I watched Voldemort bleed to death! I kept him from healing himself until his heart stopped, and I stood there as Draco chopped off his bloody head!"

Dumbledore only shook his head. "Harry, it's entirely possible that Draco Malfoy was trying to follow in his father's footsteps. You say that he gave you the portkey that delivered you to Voldemort. We've had our suspicions, but it could well be that young Mr. Malfoy has turned Death Eater himself."

Harry dismissed the Headmaster's bombshell easily, too angry to mince words, "So what if he was? What does that matter? It doesn't make Voldemort any less dead!"

Dumbledore stared at Harry and was surprised for the second time in as many minutes. "It matters because the prophecy says that _you_ will kill Voldemort. Indeed, it says that _only_ you will have the power to kill him. If Mr. Malfoy is truly a Death Eater, than we have little reason to believe that _he_ would actually kill his master, even if he could. This could be a ruse of some sort, though it's hard to imagine what the Death Eaters would hope to gain from it. Perhaps an attempt to get us to lower our guard, to leave ourselves vulnerable..."

Harry couldn't believe what he was hearing. He felt like he was arguing with Fudge again, though this time for the other side. "I felt him die, sir! I felt his bloody presence die, and the pain in my scar went with it!"

The headmaster wasn't going to accept the facts based on his words alone—Harry could see it in the old man's cornflower-blue eyes. He struggled with the chain around his neck, feeling the tiny dragon's head against his fingers as he wrestled the clasp open. Hoping that Draco was no longer in that room, Harry tossed the spent portkey to Dumbledore. Pushing himself up off the bed, he said in a cold voice, "There's the portkey. Trace it, and see for yourself." Nothing of the adults tried to stop him as he left.

Harry was shaking again by the time he got up to the Gryffindor Tower. He muttered the password, and the portrait of the Fat Lady swung open without another word. Most of his housemates were there in the common room, and they all fell silent when Harry entered. Ignoring this behavior as if it were usual, he asked the crowd in general, "Anyone know where Ron and Hermione are?"

Neville was the first to speak up, and he told Harry, voice squeaking nervously, "They're both in the prefect's lounge."

Nodding his thanks, Harry headed up to the small lounge. He could hear a murmur of voices inside, and so he knocked cursorily before he let himself in. Ron had his arms around Hermione, the skinny girl burying her face in his shirt, so the ginger prefect was the first to see Harry as he stood in the doorway. The slighter boy shook his dark messy head and offered a wry little smile. "Miss me?" Then the smile crumbled, and Harry felt as if he might break down into tears right there in front of his best friends.

Hermione had spun around when she heard his voice, and she threw herself at him, digging her hands into his borrowed white sweater. " _Harry!_ We were so frightened! What _happened?_ " He detached her hands and pushed her back onto Ron. But then he sat down on the edge of one armchair and told them everything that had happened in that dark room, much more than he had told Dumbledore. They listened without interruption and didn't ask any questions until he had finished describing Dumbledore's reaction and explaining how he'd left the hospital wing to return to them.

There was a long and uncomfortable silence before Hermione finally asked aloud what they all had wondered by now: "Do you think...do you think Malfoy planned for this to happen?"

Harry looked down at his own fingers, locked together so tightly the knuckles were white. The long sleeves of Draco's shirt trailed over the backs of his hands, just as white. "I have no idea. But I wish I did." He didn't know how to feel or how to react. Draco had lied to him—or at least hidden things from him—all the way up to the end. He had given him a gift that could have killed him, putting a portkey around his neck to deliver him straight to Voldemort. And Draco had killed Voldemort, saving Harry in the process, saving Harry from the prophecy that might have killed him, if not today than some day in the future. Draco Malfoy was...the hero of the Wizarding world. So where the hell was he now?

* * *

THE SUN HADN'T YET GONE down when the whole school was summoned back down to the Great Hall once more. Dumbledore was waiting there to address them, and all the Christmas decorations were still up. With the traces of a benign smile lurking behind his long beard, the headmaster spoke in a carrying voice, "My dear students! I know that this has been a most unusual Christmas, but we have all been given a most precious gift:

"Voldemort is gone. The Wizarding world is free again!"

This proclamation was met with stunned silence, but Dumbledore wasn't deterred. "The Aurors have confirmed it, and it has already been announced to the press: Lord Voldemort is dead. His body and those of a number of his closest followers, his Death Eaters, have been retrieved by the Aurors. According to the preliminary investigation, it would appear that Voldemort's forces destroyed themselves in some internal conflict."

There was a wail from the Slytherins, and Harry looked over to see a fifth-year girl fall to the ground, hands clasped over her mouth. The Slytherins stood separate from the rest of the school, and their faces were a mix of shock and dread. But there wasn't any satisfaction to be had from seeing the worst of them get what was coming to them at last. Right now, they weren't evil supporters of You-Know-Who. They were a bunch of kids, some of whom had just been told in the most callous way imaginable that they might have lost a parent.

Harry glared at the headmaster. But even his hot anger was driven out of him by a strange hollow feeling when Dumbledore continued on to say, "Draco Malfoy also disappeared when Harry Potter did, and we have no choice at this point but to assume that Mr. Malfoy was killed in the crossfire."

A hand grabbed at his and Harry realized he'd started forward without thinking, his feet needing no input from him. "Harry!" Ginny cried, tugging on his hand desperately, but he couldn't help himself from struggling forward through the crowd.

Draco couldn't be dead. He must've gotten away before the Aurors arrived, he must have gotten away before the Death Eaters had turned on each other. He couldn't just _die_ without explaining all this. Harry's voice was strange and thick as he demanded, "Did you find Malfoy's body?" When Dumbledore didn't immediately reply, he repeated himself shrilly, " _Did you find his body?_ "

"The bodies that were found were mostly beyond recognition, and so identification will take some time. There had been a fire, and the house burnt down with many of the Death Eaters inside."

Harry sagged against his friends as he tried to fight off the nausea that was leaving him breathless, and Ron held him upright. _Burnt...? No, he couldn't have been..._ Ginny was whispering something in his ear, rubbing his back in reassurance, but he didn't hear a word she said. The moonlight hair, unreadable silver eyes. Those long thin hands and elegant wrists. The scars that Harry knew traced that slender back, though he still didn't know why. The heart that beat unevenly against his own. That body that had been a part of his last night. He couldn't be dead. He couldn't just _do_ all this, and then disappear without telling Harry _why_.

Watching Harry's pain and the Slytherins' grief—though they couldn't understand the former and didn't want to understand the latter—nobody felt much like celebrating. And Harry could only think dimly to himself, _Malfoy, where are you?_

* * *

TIME CONTINUED, AS IT STUBBORNLY insists on doing, and no word came immediately to deny Draco's presumed death. The ministry's investigations continued, with the remains of other Death Eaters slowly being confirmed one by one and announced in the papers over several days. Not all of the Death Eaters had ended up dying of their injuries from the fire, but they were put under guarded watch in St. Mungos, and they all had lifetime sentences waiting for them in the new Wizarding prison once they were well enough to be moved there.

Articles were written speculating about what must have happened in that final showdown. Harry was asked to give an official statement about what he knew and what he had witnessed. He told the Wizengamot that Draco had given him the portkey and been the one to take his gun and shoot Voldemort. He didn't tell them that he knew beyond a doubt that Draco had been a Marked Death Eater. He didn't tell them that they had been lovers. He didn't tell them that he felt as if the other boy had torn a hole out of him when he'd disappeared out of Harry's life without any explanation. Those things were only for Harry to know.

Narcissa was also questioned, since the slaughter had happened on the Malfoy grounds, but the Aurors weren't able to prove beyond a doubt that she'd known anything about what was happening at the time. She insisted that she had no idea how Draco could possibly have been involved in any of it or why he would have had such a portkey, claiming that she and her son had never had any ties to the Dark Lord, that all of that had been Lucius's business. And the Aurors had allowed her to go back to her lonely manor, though they'd warned her she was not to leave the country. They still couldn't find any concrete evidence that she was a Death Eater or had done anything illegal, and they'd certainly tried hard enough to do so when her husband had been arrested earlier that year.

The Aurors had even gone to question Lucius Malfoy in his cell, in case there were any way he might have been involved. He'd had nothing of any use to tell them. He'd only broken into somewhat unhinged laughter when he heard that his only son was suspected of bringing down the Dark Lord and of possibly being involved in the deaths of Voldemort's other followers. They hadn't been able to get anything out of Lucius after that, the gaunt man stubbornly keeping his silence with a strange smirk and a furious gleam in his gray eyes.

In the end, there had been nothing to pin definitively on the young Malfoy boy. There was Harry's word, but the portkey he'd handed over to them hadn't been made by Draco. There were slight traces of the boy's magical signature around the area where all of the Death Eaters had died, but nothing strong and it could hardly be considered decisive evidence. Of course there would be traces of the boy's magic on the grounds of his own family home. Neither Voldemort nor his Death Eaters had been killed using magical means, so there were no traces of any spells that could be analyzed. They couldn't even recreate any course of events from the magical vibrations that might have soaked into the building itself, because it had been so thoroughly damaged by the fire.

The investigation was closed, declared officially to be a case of internal conflict, with no charges against any one individual for the fire that had injured dozens of Dark wizards and witches and killed seven of them in the end. But it wasn't like anyone was out there demanding justice for the Death Eaters who had died—no one that the Aurors cared to listen to anyway. The Wizarding world was all too happy to move on and forget the short-lived terror of Voldemort's second war.

But just as they couldn't find any proof that Malfoy had done anything in that building, they'd also been unable to find any proof that he'd died in it either. None of the burnt remains they'd sifted out of the ashes could be matched to the sixteen-year-old boy. As far as anyone could tell, Draco Malfoy was simply gone. Perhaps he'd helped bring down Voldemort, perhaps he'd been so utterly destroyed in the battle that followed that there was nothing to find, perhaps he'd never been there at all. He'd disappeared so thoroughly it was as if he'd never existed in the first place.

To those who didn't know him well, Harry might have seemed all right. After the initial shock of his outburst and collapse on Christmas day, he hadn't said another word in public about Malfoy's disappearance. Perhaps he'd seemed quieter than usual—perhaps his eyes had seemed haunted in a way they hadn't before or more often accompanied by dark circles as if he didn't sleep at night—but when the new term began in January, he went to all his classes. He ate his meals. He turned in essays and brewed potions. But he quit Quidditch, claiming that he had lost the desire to play. His spot went to Ginny, and he didn't even bother to go see her play. The D.A. was disbanded, since there was no longer any need for such a group, and Harry said he didn't feel much like teaching anymore anyway. There were no more extra lessons or private meetings with Dumbledore. Harry Potter was nothing more than regular student now.

During the daytime hours he would always avoid the abandoned dungeons that he had shared with Draco. He spent his time in Gryffindor Tower or in the library with his friends, not even going out to walk the grounds on his own. When he was with his friends, he could usually act normal. He could pretend. But occasionally, in the middle of the night, when he couldn't sleep, he would steal down to the dungeons again. He would always be aware of how he looked when he walked down that corridor, half-hoping and half-fearing that the Death Eater might be sitting in his room and watching through the enchanted walls as Harry pushed open the door hidden behind an ancient tapestry.

But he was never there.

As the months passed, Harry began to no longer see Draco everywhere. He was no longer rudely shocked every time he looked up from his studying, expecting the boy to be working across from him. He stopped searching crowded halls for the pale blond head that he had looked to for months. Whenever he did something foolish, his mind would no longer play tricks on him by providing the sort of sarcastic commentary that Draco would have given. And eventually he stopped going to that dungeon room altogether, and the constant nightmares of a pale blond figure being burned alive began to be replaced by other dreams.

Spring passed into summer, and the changing seasons brought with them final exams. Harry let himself be consumed by Hermione's revision schedule and got the best grades he had in all his time at Hogwarts. And just like that, sixth year was over. They'd somehow made it through and everyone was going home for the summer, something which had seemed unimaginable only half a year before. School would return in the fall, no longer any fear of war or attacks to bring that into any doubt. It was almost as if the past two years hadn't happened, though the empty seats on the train back to King's Cross reminded them all that they had. Sitting in a compartment with Hermione, Ron, and Ginny, listening to their easy chatter, Harry wondered what his last year would be like. He wondered if he would be able to make it through alone—and then a Chocolate Frog escaped from Hermione's grasp and hit him in the head, followed by apologies from the prefect and laughter from the Weasleys. And Harry remembered that he wasn't entirely alone. Even if Malfoy was truly gone.

Yet at times he still couldn't help feeling as though he'd left something unfinished. And sometimes, even after everything that had happened, he would remember.

_Remember, Potter?_

_Remember what I told you?_

_Remember?_


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 18**

DRACO STOOD OUTSIDE THE BURNING building in shock. He had done it. _He had really done it_. Voldemort and his most loyal Death Eaters were dead or dying. Everything was finally over.

Ever since Voldemort had come to Malfoy Manor that past summer to demand his servitude, Draco had known that he couldn't be a Death Eater. It wasn't that he had a particular objection to Voldemort's ideals. If the Dark Lord thought Purebloods should be the elite ruling class of the Wizarding world, it wasn't going to be much skin off Draco's back. And perhaps Voldemort wanted to kill Muggles along the way—well, bully for him. But Draco had no particular desire to kill or torture people himself, and he saw no reason why he should have to, especially if it would only land him a cell next to his father's in Azkaban or whatever new hell the government had thought up. Yet if he was Voldemort's to command, he would be ordered to kill. He have to do whatever he was ordered to do, or risk torture and death himself.

So Draco had tried to demur. He'd claimed he could do more from inside Hogwarts unmarked. He'd even flat-out refused by the end of the first week of arguments. And it had turned out that his family didn't really appreciate his opinions on the matter. Well no one could say what his father thought about it. For all they knew, he was rotting in some jail cell and being driven barmy by fwoopers. But Draco's mother, whose interest in Dark politics had always seem to be based more on how it impacted her social circles than the murder sprees, had turned out to be having some kind of an _affair_ with Voldemort—which was frankly more disgusting than Draco wanted to contemplate. She'd been rather cross about Draco's stubborn insistence on remaining free. Thus she had drugged his dinner one night, and he had woken to the flesh-searing pain of Voldemort's Mark being burned into his skin.

That, as they say, had been that. Draco had become an unwilling Death Eater and in the most ignoble way he could imagine. Not that he ever showed his disgust or fury to anyone. He had hid behind that Malfoy mask, and he had learned firsthand what it meant to be a Death Eater. There was no escape, unless perhaps he wanted to cut off his own arm. He'd already done all the research long before Granger had insisted on raiding the library in the days before Christmas. Once you were branded by the Dark Lord's mark, he could always reach you, no matter how far you ran. And so Draco had begun to plot.

He couldn't escape, and there was no way to simply _quit_ being a Death Eater. If he wanted to ever be free again, if he ever had been free at all, then he was going to have to bring things to an end—it would either have to be his death or Voldemort's. And there would be no point in his dying if the point was to be free. So he was simply going to have to kill Voldemort.

The first time Draco had thought it, he had been horrified. No matter how good he was at Occlumency ( _thanks, Lucius_ ), he'd been dizzy with fear that the Dark Lord would see the rebellion in him. But the days had slipped by, and no one said, "By the way, have you been considering murdering our master? Because I rather get the sense you have." And by then, the thought had crossed his mind so many times that it had started to leave a rut. And Draco began to hatch plans.

But how could he kill Voldemort? Ignoring the question of whether the monster even would die, there were logistical problems. Voldemort never met with his Death Eaters one on one. He was always flanked by his lieutenants, the upper echelon of six or seven Death Eaters whom Voldemort held in esteem. Their members rotated from time to time, depending on who was in favor at the moment, but always a few were on hand to carry out whatever Voldemort asked of them. There was no way Draco would be able to take out Voldemort without one of them killing him first. Or even if he did manage it, they wouldn't allow him to walk or even run away. Hardly. And the name of the game was survival. He had to find a way to be alone with Voldemort if he wanted to kill him.

Then a perfect opportunity had landed in his lap.

"You want Potter?" he had asked. "I can get you Potter."

It had come up during the summer, some weeks after he'd seen the Boy Who Lived at Black's funeral, nearly a month after he'd been Marked. While Voldemort set in motion other plans, larger plans for the Wizarding world as a whole, he continued to obsess over Harry Potter for some reason that Draco had never understood. Yes, Potter had escaped him more times than anyone else, and he'd been responsible for Voldemort's downfall fifteen years earlier, but he was still just one boy. As far as Draco could see, there was no reason to remain fixated on him except perhaps pride.

Pride was a useful tool, though. Draco knew it. He'd spent half his life twisting and breaking himself to try to fit into the mold Lucius expected him to fit, all because his pride hadn't allowed him to back down or do anything else. He'd recognized that pride in Voldemort and seen a possibility. He could get Potter for Voldemort, he had assured the Dark Lord. But there would only be one shot at it. Once he'd tricked Potter, the boy wouldn't fall for the same thing again—that is, if Potter managed to get away even after Draco brought him to Voldemort.

And he _did_ seem to always get away, didn't he?

He did always seem to escape Voldemort's grasp, even though the Dark Lord _should_ have been unquestionably the stronger of the two.

Always slipping away, so infuriatingly, as all Voldemort's own followers looked on.

_Perhaps...My Lord, perhaps I should bring Potter only to you first. If he still manages to escape, I'm sure it would be my own fault, of course. But still..._

Oh, it had been a dangerous game to play. Weeks of seemingly unrelated remarks, a touch of pressure here and there to the tyrant's pride and wariness and sense of humiliation, and iron-clad control of his own thoughts as Voldemort probed at his young servant's mind. But it was true that Voldemort didn't wish to be embarrassed again by Harry Potter. Enough was enough. So the only ones who would be present when Draco brought the Gryffindor wretch would be the Dark Lord and Malfoy himself. Draco would summon the boy via portkey—and it would only be more delicious for Voldemort to watch the Gryffindor realize his betrayal at the hands of his new friend. If Harry Potter managed to escape with his life again, Voldemort could simply silence or kill Malfoy, and the failure would be erased with his death. But if they succeeded, if Harry Potter fell into their hands and could be held there, then all the other Death Eaters could be summoned to bathe in Harry's blood and sing karaoke, or whatever it was they did when they murdered their foes.

And like that, Draco had found a solution to the first problem. He would have a chance alone with the Dark Lord. Better yet, Voldemort would be focused on Harry Potter and hardly sparing him a thought. That would be his chance to attack—and next Draco had to figure out how. He had carefully probed those few Death Eaters he could about the Dark Lord's precautions and the spells that protected him. He'd discovered (all in an admiring ploy, of course) that Voldemort had extensive wards about himself that prevented any of his servants to come to him bearing weapons. And if any of them had ever dared to aim a harmful spell at their master, they would have been sorely disappointed. The magic of the Dark Mark on their arm would redirect the curse, causing it to rebound back on the caster. Carefully herding his knowledge, Draco's plans had begun to take clearer shape.

For Voldemort, he would need to get the boy to trust him enough that Harry would accept a gift from him and not immediately be suspicious about it. But for himself, he would need to make sure that Potter had some sort of weapon on him the day that he was summoned. If spells were out, then Draco would need something else he could use attack the Dark Lord before Voldemort could fight back, and Potter would be his convenient mule. The Dark Lord's precautions might not allow his followers to carry any sort of weapon when they came to him, but it didn't count if they managed to get a hold of a weapon once already in his presence.

The summer had ended, and Draco had returned to Hogwarts, and it had all gone smoother than he'd ever dreamed it could. Until it hadn't. Until he'd started to feel something for Harry Potter, something more than resentment and spite. He'd found himself attracted to the boy, in a way that had nothing to do with his plans. He'd allowed himself to get closer to the boy than was needed for handing over a portkey. He'd simply _wanted_ to be close to the boy, in a way he'd never wanted before. He'd experienced the thrill of being with someone simply because you wanted to be with them, not because you were trying to get something from them—but of course Draco _had_ been trying to get something from Harry Potter the entire time. He'd been trying to get his chance at freedom.

Draco had told himself there would be other people. If he pulled this off, if he survived, there could be someone else someday, even if it couldn't be Harry. If he was killed by Voldemort or locked away in prison the rest of his life, then there definitely wouldn't be anyone else. So as much as he might in fact like Harry Potter, that sympathy couldn't get in the way of his survival. Surely it wasn't worth his life. He had done all this to _survive._ He might enjoy his dalliance with Harry while it lasted, while he could pretend the ruse was real, but he couldn't forget what really mattered.

And then everything had nearly come undone when Harry had got himself caught in Hogsmeade. Draco had never found out the full story of why Voldemort hadn't simply killed the boy at once, which would have doomed Draco's plans as well, but he'd never been more relieved to see Harry Potter live through another encounter with the Dark Lord. And perhaps it only proved Draco's original point. After all, Harry had just managed to escape yet again, while tied and bound and surrounded by Death Eaters. How many more times could a Dark Lord outlive such humiliation?

And then everything had nearly come undone when Harry had discovered that Draco was Marked. Draco had scrambled to scrape things back together, uncertain what lies could hold the fraying threads of his plans in place long enough to make it through a few more weeks, uncertain what truths might make things better or worse. He'd wondered if there was any chance he could still tell Harry the truth, convince him to somehow team up and take Voldemort unaware, attacking together when the day came. But what if he couldn't convince Harry? Or what if he did, and Voldemort picked up on their plans from Harry's mind? There had been so much that could go irrevocably wrong, and not enough time to make things right again if they did. Draco had been paralyzed with uncertainty, and before he'd had to make a choice and take some step he wouldn't be able to take back, Harry had come back to Draco on his own.

And then everything had nearly come undone when Harry's friends had found out, even after Harry had returned to him.

And when Draco hadn't wanted to leave his bed that morning.

And when he'd seen Harry fall to the floor at Voldemort's feet.

And when he hadn't even been able to shoot the gun.

But _he'd done it._

* * *

AFTER HE'D KILLED VOLDEMORT, AFTER he'd sent Harry back, Draco had swept the body away into a dark cupboard and disappeared any trace of blood with a scouring charm. Then he had given the signal that would bring the other Death Eaters running. There was no Apparating on the Malfoy grounds, unless you were a Malfoy. They Apparated instead to the closest edge of the Malfoy estate that they could and started streaming across the grounds while Draco settled a mask over his face for the last time. No metaphorical mask this time, but an actual Death Eater's mask—the better to avoid questions from those who had never been told that he was one of them.

When the earliest to arrive asked suspiciously where their master was, Draco smoothly lied about how Voldemort had something very special he was preparing to show them all. A special 'guest' for them to meet. Draco allowed a note of wicked pleasure into his voice, inviting their imaginations to run wild over who Voldemort might have managed to capture this time. At last it had seemed they'd all assembled, the crowd rustling impatiently and muttering to one another. And so, after one last look around, Draco had Apparated outside the building himself, ensured the doors were sealed, and lit the whole damned thing aflame with Fiendfyre, holding his wand steady as he watched the flames chase up the walls and over the roof.

The fire was blazing up into the sky when his mother appeared. She had Apparated over from the manor as soon as she had been alerted to the smoke and flames out on the grounds. Draco had already let the Fiendfyre curse be released by then, since the whole building was burning well on its own, and the screaming seemed to have stopped from inside.

Narcissa stared at the flames in horror and whispered, "What have you done?"

Draco shook his head, nearly the same color as hers but even fairer. He hadn't let himself think about what he was actually _doing_ , only about the goal: get free, stay alive, make sure no one was left to carry on Voldemort's regime or bring him back again. It had seemed so important at one point that he get rid of the other Death Eaters. On paper, he'd known he couldn't leave any loopholes open. Voldemort had already been revived once using Dark Magic. Now Draco looked down at his hands. There wasn't any blood to be seen on them. He hadn't touched any of the people he'd killed. But he knew the blood was there, all the same.

 _What_ have _I done?_

Draco stared at the collapsing building as the roof began to cave in, timbers groaning and cracking as the fire roared over them. There had been people in there. He had trapped them inside and let them burn alive. He had killed people he had known most of his life—several of them his Slytherin housemates' parents. He had murdered, and not just one monster, but perhaps dozens of people.

Narcissa slapped him, her darker blonde hair flying around her contorted face as she screamed, " _WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?_ " Before he could pull himself together enough to even protect himself, his mother struck him again and again, knocking him onto the sooty ground. She beat him until he passed out, and the acrid smoke burning his nostrils was the last thing Draco remembered for a while.

* * *

DRACO DRIFTED IN AND OUT of consciousness. He couldn't be sure what memories had been fancies of his disturbed mind and which had truly happened. The first thing he was certain about was being locked away in the Malfoy dungeons. He saw the family crest worked into the lock that swung from the door—wouldn't want your prisoners to forget who to thank for their suffering. Not questioning why he was locked away beneath his own house, he let the sweet blackness take him again.

* * *

SOMEONE WAS SPEAKING TO HIM. Blinking his eyes, a golden-white figure swam into Draco's vision. It resolved into his mother, and he blinked some more, trying to comprehend what she was saying in her low, decorous voice. "Finally awake? Oh, my morning star... You see what you make me do?" She tutted to herself. "I know that it's not your fault. You were flawed since you were born, and no matter how many times I've tried to help you, you are still flawed."

Draco tried to shrink away, every part of him aching from the beating that had left him unconscious in the first place. He knew what it meant when his mother talked in this sickly-sweet way. He knew what her idea of 'help' was. But the cell was too small for him to keep himself out of her reach. She stroked his hair and said in a voice that positively dripped with false regret, "I think you need another stay in the oubliette." When he started to protest, she hushed him. "I know. I know you find it uncomfortable."

Draco would have laughed if he'd found it possible. _Yes, and Hell is just a sauna..._

"Draco, you've done awful things, and you must be punished. You must think about what it is you've done. I thought that your last trip to the oubliette had been enough, but it seems you didn't learn your lesson." Her voice was brimming with grief, though none of it was for him. "First you took Alexander from me, then your father. And now, even sweet Tom. You've taken everyone I love away from me. I have no one now."

Of course Narcissa blamed him for Lucius's capture, although Draco had had nothing to do with it. He hadn't even known about the raid on the Department of Mysteries until it was over. But he couldn't be outraged over that, because her words had brought back just what he had done—the sound of the bullets striking flesh, the feel of the sword hitting bone, the screams of the burning. He tried desperately to focus on her words, preferring the familiarity of her games to the real horror. "What about me?" he asked, voice weak and raw.

She smiled sweetly, her cool hand cupping his cheek as she asked, "What about you?" He tried not to wince, but Narcissa wanted an answer now and her long nails dug into her jaw. "What _about_ you, Draco?"

He didn't want to have to ask, but he wouldn't risk infuriating her further by refusing. This is how the game was played. So he asked miserably, "Don't you love me?"

Her laughter was like silver bells, dancing lightly in the gloomy dungeon. "Oh, Draco, who could love you? No one would want something so flawed."

With a liquid flick of her wand, she cast a silencing charm on her blonde little boy. "Now you must be punished. You do understand, don't you? I have to help you overcome your weak nature." He begged without a shred of the pride everyone expected of a Malfoy, but not a word could be heard. She shook her head in disappointment and cast a quick _Petrificus totalus_ on him, and then he couldn't even plea silently anymore. He couldn't close his eyes, and he had no choice but to watch as his mother lowered him down into the dank hole that was the Malfoy dungeon's oubliette.

Once he was at the bottom of the twenty-foot-deep hole, Narcissa released the Petrification spell that had held him in its grip. He quickly scrambled at the walls, though there was nothing to grip, no way to climb out—he knew it from experience, but it didn't make him try any less hard. His nails scrabbling over smooth stone, Draco fell back to the bottom of the pit, feeling old bones crumble beneath his hands. The last little circle of light disappeared as the door of the oubliette clanged shut above him, and he screamed silently for no one to hear.

* * *

THE DARKNESS CONTINUED UNABATED AND whether it was for days or weeks, the boy trapped in its unforgiving grasp couldn't say. The perks of a magical dungeon meant you didn't actually have to interrupt punishment by delivering any sort of sustenance—there were spells enough to keep the prisoner alive without ever letting them feel free of want or need. With nothing to alleviate the long dark of Draco's personal hell, he had no way to tell how long he had been left alone.

The pit he was in was less than three feet across, making it impossible for him to lie down properly—if he would have wanted to lie on a bed of bones. He couldn't even extend his legs out straight. If he wanted to stretch them, he had to stand, balancing atop the shifting and rolling bones. The silencing spell had never been lifted and there was nothing to hear in the dark except his own breath and the dry rustle of the bones beneath him. He'd tried to keep his bodily excretions to one side of the hole but had quickly lost any idea of which side that was in the unrelenting dark. Luckily, that problem went away after the first couple days without food or water.

He was well on his way to losing his grasp on the outside world, and even on his own internal thoughts, when—in one moment of time indistinguishable from every other never-ending moment—the heavy metal door clanged open high above him. It frightened him more than the dark and the bones by that point, and the spot of light high above him seemed blinding as he tried to cower back against the wall.

"Draco?"

It was his mother. For some reason, the realization caused a confused rush of emotions from him. If this woman was his mother, then who was he? He couldn't quite remember, but he knew that the woman could do... _something_ to help him. He knew that she could make things better, though he had no concept of what would be 'better'. There had never been anything but the lonely dark, had there?

His lips cracked as they shaped the words, " _Q-qu'est-ce que c'est?_ " But there was no sound. The distant woman seemed to realize the problem, and she cancelled the silencing spell, then called out to him again. Draco—he must be Draco, right? That was what she had called out, the mother—felt magic tingle through him for the first time in ages. The orihalcon stone that surrounded him prevented him from using any magic himself, and now he was remembering for the first time that he should have been able to use magic. He licked his bleeding lips with a nearly dry tongue and said hoarsely, " _Oui, je suis ici. Je suis ici, mère._ "

Draco could hear the commiserating smile in her honeyed voice as she also replied in his native tongue, "My morning star, I'm afraid I've had some bad news. I've just heard the most troubling rumor about you having some sort of perverted relationship with Harry Potter." Her words meant nothing to him, but the new name caused a different rush of emotion to flood his starved mind. "My poor boy, this flaw demands much more attention. I had thought to let you up soon, but now I have no choice. You will have to remain here until your perversion is cured."

Draco thought distantly, _Harry...?_ He had a sudden flash of green eyes, sparkling with dark humor. A small whimper escaped him as he tried not to remember, and he heard his mother's light laugh as she watched him from so far above.

Whether it had been intentional or not, the mother had provided him with a whole new set of nightmares. Now he was plagued with hallucinations; stress induced fantasies that Harry Potter had come to save him in a rush of sweet words and kisses. The reminder forced him to remember this other boy, with messy dark hair and a wry smile. Although he didn't know himself, he knew Harry, and that somehow the fantasy boy would save him.

So when Harry called down the hole to him one night, he wasn't terribly surprised.

The door clanged as someone fiddled with the bar that held it shut, and the boy flinched at the harsh sound. He heard _Harry's_ voice, haunting him as it had for weeks now, "Draco? Malfoy, are you there?"

He was rather tired of the visions and, from the depths of his dark prison, he cried hoarsely, " _Va te faire voire!_ "

The other voice sounded perplexed, and its sweet, simple tones were familiar. "Wh-what? Draco, is that you?"

Trying futilely to clear his throat, the boy croaked out, " _Laissez-moi tranquille!_ Piss _off!_ "

There was a moment of silence, and then the Harry-voice muttered to itself, "Well, bugger that. Never had someone I saved tell me to piss off before."

The bo—no, _Draco_ looked sharply up into that blinding light, not quite daring to hope. But none of his fantasies had ever spoken to him like that. He asked in a small, scared voice, "Harry?"

The black head reappeared in front of the door hole, and there was a brief sheen of light reflecting off ridiculous round glasses, "Who else, Malfoy, but the bloody Boy Who Lived himself?"

Draco continued to stare at that vague shape and said stupidly, "I can't get up there, Harry." As soon as he said it, he felt a spell levitate him, and he rose free from the refuse and the bones that had been his life for so long.

He was lifted free of the hole and set gently upon the stone floor in the torch-lit dungeon. Even that gloomy lighting seemed far too harsh and bright to Draco, and his eyes watered as he blinked furiously, the fragile lids refusing to open all the way. Harry laughed and performed a scouring charm on him, saying, "Gods, you're filthy, Draco." He didn't feel any better, but looking down at the clothes he had been wearing since...( _Christmas,_ a little voice in his head whispered), Draco realized he was at least clean.

He tried to blink up at Harry as the boy pocketed a mahogany wand that was somehow familiar. The black-haired boy stooped down beside Draco and slid a hand over that white face, his thumb stroking a sharp cheekbone. Harry spoke softly, "Oh, Draco. You know I love you more than the world?"

The blonde opened his mouth to ask, "What?" but Harry had bent in to kiss him.

Something was wrong. Draco still wasn't sure who Harry was supposed to be to him, but he was nonetheless sure that the boy had never spoken to him like that, and never kissed him like this. As soon as Draco thought it, he struggled away. Harry sat back on his heels with a bemused smile, "What's the matter, Draco?"

He was still having trouble focusing through the light, his eyes wanting to roll back in his head as he forced them open to stare at Harry. His voice was hoarse from disuse as he accused the boy, "You're not Harry."

The green eyes flinched in pain, and Harry sounded hurt when he said, "Gods, Draco. How can you say something like that?" But Malfoy had seen enough. He reached out and tore apart the spell, though he had no idea how he did it or that he shouldn't have been able to. Instantly, a rather pug-nosed girl was kneeling in front of him, the clothes made for Harry's small frame stretching unattractively over her curves.

 _Pansy Parkinson,_ the cool voice in his mind supplied the name for him.

She stared at him without even the grace to hide her shock, "But that's impossible!" Draco had no better idea than she about he had been able to do something like that. As knowledge started to filter back in, he knew somehow that what he had just done was not normal. Perhaps not using any magic for so long had left him with some overabundance of power. Pansy screeched at him, "Your mother assured me that you would be broken and powerless! You were mine to play with!"

Draco's silver eyes were slits and his pupils were contracted to pinpoints just from the dim lighting in the dungeon. His glare was no less frightening for it, though, and Pansy was already scrambling back. He could barely lift himself to stand up, but picking her up with a bit of wandless magic was no problem. He tossed her down the oubliette, leaving her with her mahogany wand, since he didn't want to kill her. He had a feeling that there had been too much of that already. "Play with yourself, Pansy," he spat darkly in his rough voice, before slamming the door on her.

He could hear the muffled screams, but it didn't slow him at all. Someone would find her. He held himself up against the manhole and trembled with exertion from that single action. But he could feel his magic coursing back through him like a long draught of cool water. _If I were a Muggle, I probably would have died in that hole._ The thought came to him even though he couldn't immediately say just what a Muggle was. But pieces were beginning to fall into place, and the thoughts rushed on even if he couldn't fully explain their meaning even to himself. _I'm lucky that I didn't die of my own weaknesses. Probably have Mother to thank for that. She wouldn't have wished her punishment to end too quickly._

Draco was sure that Narcissa would find out before long that he had gotten out. He needed to get away from this place— _Malfoy Manor_ —though it wouldn't be much of an escape. He knew he was only sixteen (seventeen now?). Even if he ran, it would be within his mother's rights to send out the authorities to hasten his safe return. If she didn't report him as a Death Eater ( _A what?_ ) and simply have him hunted down, that is. He had to go someplace she wouldn't or couldn't find him.

Then he suddenly remembered kneeling by a bed somewhere and looking at a crumpled picture that had been carefully smoothed out. There had been writing on the back of that still picture, a scrawled address. _Number 4 Privet Drive. Little Whinging, Surrey._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, there were a lot of plot holes here that I've tried to spackle over in re-editing these past couple chapters, but don't look too closely or you'll still see the gaps. Shhhh.
> 
> On to part two of the tale!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a brief string of some strong homophobic language in this one!

**Chapter 19**

PETUNIA DURSLEY HEARD A POLITE knock on her front door and hurried out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on the apron secured around her bony hips. Her lips tightened with annoyance, since she hadn't been expecting any visitors, but her anger quickly melted away when she saw the _exquisite_ young man on her front step. Pulling away from the peephole, she yanked the door open to the shining boy. Smoothed down her skirt with one hand, she asked breathlessly, "Yes, may I help you with something?"

The boy raised stunning silver eyes to her face, his pupils contracted in the bright afternoon light. Brushing his white-blond hair off his face in a self-conscious gesture, he spoke in a well-cultured voice, "Oh, I'm truly sorry to intrude upon you like this, miss." Petunia preened and thought gleefully, _'Miss', is it? No 'ma'am' around here._ The perfect boy continued, "But I wondered if it mightn't be possible for me to use your telephone?"

She blinked in slight confusion, and the boy looked even more endearingly flustered as he explained, "My father was supposed to come around to pick me up from a friend's, but it probably slipped his mind. I started walking, and now I'm afraid I'm thoroughly lost. I was at my wit's end what to do, but then I saw your house, so obviously well cared for, and I thought perhaps I might some kind soul to help me—like yourself."

Petunia was positively glowing. She welcomed the boy in and insisted that she get him a glass of lemonade before she showed him to the phone. Looking slightly at unease, he picked up the handset gingerly. "Do you happen to know the number for a taxi service?" She didn't, but she looked one up in the phone book and dialed for him before handing the phone back.

The boy looked relieved when he was connected to another live person on the other end of the line, and then he turned back to the housewife apologetically. "I'm sorry, but would it be too much of an imposition if I give the address here? I can just wait out front."

Mrs. Dursley protested immediately, "No such thing! You will stay here and have some more lemonade. The address is Number 4, Privet Drive. That's in Little Whinging, of course."

Thanking her for her undue kindness, he repeated the address back to the operator on the other end of the phone. Petunia listened to his fine accent eagerly, as he spoke into the phone.

"Yes, that's right... Oh, no, that won't do at all... Are you sure? ... Yes, well, thank you. ... Yes, at half-five then."

 _Now this is the sort of boy my Duddy-kins should become friends_ _with_ , the scheming housewife thought to herself. _So posh, probably rich as the Queen—what a connection! If only Duddy were here now and not out with those common friends of his..._

The boy hung up the phone with a regretful click, turning back to Petunia to say, "This is just awful. They say that they cannot be here until half past the house. That's nearly thirty minutes from now. I can't possibly abuse your generosity so long."

But Petunia was more and more enthralled with the beautiful boy, and she insisted, "It's nothing of the sort! I would be delighted to have such a well-mannered young man stay and pass the time with me!"

She was practically writhing in delight as she invited him out to the back garden. They would sit out on the brand new lawn chairs, sipping their lemonade, and the neighbors would be dying with curiosity. Oh, this was the highlight of her week, maybe even the month! She asked in a purposefully loud voice as they passed through the back door, "Oh, how rude of me, I don't believe I've even asked your name."

The boy was breathtaking in the sunlight, and Petunia thought she could see that old biddy, Doreen Anderson, peering through the window next door. "No, how poor of me not to introduce myself. My name is Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."

She gestured him to the fresh white chairs and said blithely, "Drake, is it? That's such a lovely name, so strong—though maybe a bit foreign-sounding..."

"It's Draco." A quietly throbbing voice interrupted them, and Petunia looked over to see her nephew standing up from weeding the bushes, looking dirty and sweaty. She could have died on the spot from embarrassment, but then the wild-looking boy had corrected her. "It's not 'Drake' at all. It's 'Draco'."

She looked between the two boys, who were both awfully still as they stared at each other. She tried to turn Draco away, explaining, "Oh, don't mind him. He's a local urchin. We hire him out to do the yard-work, always trying to help the less fortunate..."

But the blond was refusing to be moved, and he said softly, "Potter." Petunia could feel her brilliant glimpse of gossip and fame slipping away. _No, they can't know each other. This perfect young man can't be one of the freaks, one of his kind._

"Is it... Is it really you?" The Potter boy was staring at the blond as if he were a ghost. "This isn't Polyjuice? Some trick?"

A slight smirk traced across the pale boy's face, and he said coolly, though his voice was strangely rough, "As if I would tell you, if it were."

Then Harry rushed forward, and Petunia screeched as she scrambled backward, realizing too late that she hadn't been his target. Her nephew threw his arms around the blond boy, one hand around the back of the stranger's head and fingers tangled in those platinum locks, and Petunia nearly died of shock. She glanced around, afraid the neighbors were seeing this, and hissed at Harry, "What are you doing?! For god's sake, get in the _house_." Potter had let go of the deceitful, beautiful boy nearly as suddenly as he'd hugged him, though he was still gripping the blond by the shoulders.

Petunia shoved the two of them back into the kitchen and pulled the curtains tightly shut, before she wheeled on the dirty parasite that had been hoisted off on her by her dead sister. She grabbed the first thing her hand fell upon (which happened to be a large wooden spoon) and started whapping him with it. She was still spitting angrily, "What are you thinking, you wretched boy! Do you know how your little show could damage our reputation?"

Harry ducked away, his arms over his head, and she turned on the Malfoy boy. Waving her spoon in his face in warning, she scolded him, "And _you!_ Pretending you're some nice, normal boy when you are really just another freak!"

He grabbed her wrist so she would stop brandishing her ridiculous wooden spoon, and she squeaked in outrage. He said coolly, "Being homosexual does not make me a 'freak', _miss_."

This didn't quite have the desired effect, and she struggled desperately to be free of his hold as she wailed, "Oh, lord, you're even worse than just a freak!"

He let go of her, having no desire to hold onto the panicking Muggle, and ground out, "What are you talking about, you daft woman?"

Harry said helpfully from the corner, "By 'freak', she means 'wizard'. I don't think she knows an insult bad enough for being gay."

Petunia had run into the sitting room and slammed the door after her, as if that would stop two almost fully-trained wizards. She threatened Harry, "I'm going to call your uncle, Potter! Just wait till he hears about this!" But Harry only shrugged at her and gestured for Draco to follow him upstairs. He made sure to track dirt on his aunt's pristine carpet as he went and was rewarded by her scream of rage a few moments later.

"Salazar's knees, Potter. Is your life always this exciting?"

The sweaty boy gave a short, dry laugh. "No. Only when you're around, Malfoy."

Harry walked into a little room just to the right of the top of the staircase. Flicking a little switch on the wall caused bright light to bloom into life, and as he blinked, Draco realized it was a bathroom— though smaller and less ornate than any bathroom he'd ever seen at Malfoy Manor. Harry turned on the sink's faucet as Draco leaned against the wall, propping himself up against the doorframe. This wasn't quite what he'd had planned—if he'd even had a plan when he'd come here.

Harry bent down to splash water on his face, and so Draco couldn't see his expression when the boy said in a carefully neutral voice, "People thought you were dead, you know."

Draco watched the way the thin shirt stretched over the Gryffindor's back and asked softly, "But you didn't?"

The face that Harry raised was dripping water like too many tears, and he pushed his wet hair back as he met Draco's eyes in the mirror. He said honestly, his voice holding a forced lightness, "No, I did, too. But then they couldn't find any proof, so it seemed like you'd only gone and disappeared without a trace. And now here you are. In Surrey."

He stared at Draco in the mirror, not daring to turn around and face the real thing. Even this reflection was too much for him. He swallowed and asked, quieter now, "Why are you here, Draco?"

The Slytherin was complete detachment as he told him, "I suppose I just stopped by to apologize."

Now Harry turned around to ask, " _What?_ " He stared unrestrainedly at Draco, who was thinner than he remembered and had tired bruises under his eyes. It really was Draco, who Harry hadn't seen for over six months. Half a year of thinking the boy could be dead or gone forever, and here he was again—looking weary and haunted, but alive and just inches from Harry again.

Draco gave a little shrug, as if Harry wasn't staring at him like a starving man might filet mignon. He explained, "I figured I owed you an apology still."

Harry wrenched the tap that he'd left running shut. "I'm less interested in your apologies than an _explanation_." His voice echoed slightly in the small room with its tiled walls.

"Oh, come on. Don't you remember, Potter? I told you."

For some reason, the words made Harry flinch as if he'd been struck. Only too late did Draco remember his old game. _Remember what I told you, Potter?_ He swallowed, then went on. "I was telling the truth when I told you and your little friends that it was all a ploy to get close to you. I simply lied about when and how I was meant to deliver you to Voldemort."

Harry's eyes were burning into his, and Draco wished the other boy would blink or look away or _something_. "So we—we really were just..."

Draco shook his head, still with that tight smile on his face, as tight as the ball of guilt and sickness in his stomach. " _We?_ Let's be honest here. There wasn't really ever a _we._ Not like you're thinking. There was a whole lot of _me_ using _you_."

Petunia was eavesdropping from an air-vent downstairs, shocked at what the boys were saying. So she hadn't been imagining it: her freak of a nephew, on top of everything else, was about as straight as a roundabout. She sank into a stiff chintz armchair, wondering dimly what she had ever done wrong to deserve such a burden.

After staring wordlessly at the Slytherin for several moments, Harry walked past Draco and headed down the hall. The blond remained as he was against the doorjamb for a couple more moments, before he followed. He saw Harry's muddy trainers outside an open door and smiled to himself. Apparently Harry enjoyed mucking up his aunt's house, but his own space was a different matter. He stopped unsurely in the doorway to the bare little bedroom.

The Boy Who Lived was pulling clothes out of a plain, press-board wardrobe, and Draco stayed in the doorway, eyes passing over the narrow bed that was covered with a worn and patched old blanket. He asked Harry, "So is that all then?"

It surprised him when the Gryffindor whirled, looking angry for the first time. "What do you expect me to say to that? What did you come here for, Malfoy?"

"I told you."

" _No_ ," Harry disagreed. "You haven't. You haven't told me anything. Not really." He stalked to the door, shoving past Draco, his touch there and gone in an instant. "I'm going to get changed. Feel free to show yourself the hell out, if that's all you've got to say for yourself." He slammed back into the small bathroom and left Draco standing where he was.

Draco blinked in shock, on the threshold of the sad, little room in the strange Muggle house. _If that's all you've got to say for yourself._ What did that mean? Should he have something else to say for himself? If he found the right words, if he put them in the right order, was there still some chance Harry would believe him? That things could be...put to rights between them?

_Don't you dare, Malfoy._

Falling back against the frame of the door, Draco slowly let his breath out. He didn't even know what he'd hoped to come of all this. He'd simply needed to see Potter. He hadn't dared to imagine how Harry would react. He could've guessed that there would be anger or hexes. He hadn't allowed himself to hope that there might still be concern or interest in those brilliant green eyes. It would have hurt too much to be wrong. But no matter what might happen, he had _needed_ to see Potter.

Yet Harry hadn't immediately cursed him or thrown him out onto the street. Before he'd caught himself, before he'd reined himself back in, he had even thrown his arms around Draco, and _oh_ , for a moment, everything had felt right again.

_As right as it felt on the night you took advantage of him in the worst way possible. Are you really going to do that to Potter again? Reel him back in so you can leave him with a few more wounds?_

The thought was like ice water poured over the flickering hope that had ignited when he'd arrived at this strange Muggle house. It didn't matter if Harry still had some traces of his former feelings beneath his anger and confusion. It didn't matter if Draco still had all of the feelings that he'd tried for months to smother the previous winter. He'd caused enough damage already. Draco didn't deserve another chance at this, after everything he'd done, and Harry didn't deserve to get hurt again.

_But he does deserve a better explanation. Then you can disappear for good._

Draco could hear water running again down the hall. It might be a while. Shoving his hands in the pockets of his trousers, Draco stepped into Harry Potter's bedroom in his Muggle relatives' house. On the plain little desk was an empty cage that Draco assumed probably belonged to Harry's owl, though who knew where the creature was in the middle of the day. There was one of those Muggle writing instruments—a 'pen', such a plebeian name—sitting on the desk, along with a piece of smooth white paper. The paper was covered with light-blue lines, though Draco hadn't the least idea as to why. On it was the beginning of a letter to Granger, but there was nothing interesting there—just standard summer greetings.

Harry had left the little wardrobe open, and Draco saw it was nearly empty. There were only a few articles of clothes hung in it, all of them shabbier even than Harry's normal fare and unfamiliar to Draco. He decided most of Harry's regular clothes must be considered the better part of his wardrobe (as pitiful as they were), and were probably still in the trunk which lay at the foot of the bed. Other than a small bookcase with several tomes that looked like they had never been opened, there was nothing more personal in the room. Bending over, Draco glanced through the titles before picking up a leather-bound, cheaply pretentious edition of the Iliad. He read the first couple lines and frowned in displeasure at the translation. As he moved to slide the book back into its place, he heard a booming voice from the lower floor, quickly followed by a heavy tread of footsteps coming up the stairs.

* * *

HARRY HAD LOCKED HIMSELF IN the bathroom to get away from Draco. If he had ever imagined being reunited with his former boyfriend, he certainly hadn't thought it would be here in the Dursley's small slice of suburbia. Or that he would end up fleeing into his aunt's cramped bathroom, staring in shock at his own miserable face in the mirror. _Draco is alive. He's alive and here. At my aunt and uncle's house. In Muggle Surrey._

There wasn't even a very good reason for _Harry_ to be here, let alone Draco Malfoy. He'd considered slipping off to Grimmauld Place, since Dumbledore seemed unlikely to bother tracking him down now, even if he was still under age. Harry no longer needed the protection of his relative's home to stay safe from Voldemort, so who would come hounding after him if he left? And it was by no means pleasant staying with the Dursleys. But it had been no more pleasant to picture himself staying all alone in the dreary rooms of Grimmauld Place with no one but Kreacher for company. So when Harry had spotted his uncle at King's Cross Station, he hadn't bothered avoiding the large man. He'd allowed himself to be trundled into the old Vauxhall and back off to Surrey. What was another two months with the Dursleys, in the grand scheme of things?

He'd expected the usual chores and insults and indignities. He hadn't expected Draco Malfoy to walk into the back garden one day weeks into the summer holiday. Perhaps he'd already walked back out of the house again. Harry wasn't sure if he wanted to hurry to get changed, so that he could throw the door open again and see if Malfoy was still standing there barely twelve feet away—or if he wanted to keep delaying for ages, so he wouldn't have to find out if he were really gone again.

 _Why did you tell him to get out?_ Harry berated himself as he scrubbed at his face, then he immediately started shaking his head. _What else was there to say? He admitted it was all a trick._

Harry shucked off his sweaty clothes and pulled on the clean set, leaving the dirty things in the hamper he would be expected to empty later anyway. He leaned over the counter top, his face close to the mirror, and tried to steel himself to face whatever he would find in the hall once he opened that door again. He took a deep breath in through his nose and was still trying to convince himself to let go of the counter when he heard his uncle downstairs, and that decided things in a hurry. Harry yanked the bathroom door open and darted into the hall as he heard Dursley pounding up the staircase. He called out, "Malfoy, don't—" and then Uncle Vernon had caught him. He couldn't help a sharp cry when the beefy man backhanded him, sending him crumpling to the floor.

Harry shook his head, still seeing stars as he was hauled up by his collar. Uncle Vernon shook him like a dog, all the time yelling at him furiously, "So this is how you repay us? You filthy little faggot! Being a freak wasn't enough, you had to be a perverted pillow-biting freak who's getting buggered at that freak school of yours! Now you bring your queer boyfriend over to embarrass us in front of the neighbors!?"

Draco, ignoring Harry's warning, had rushed out into the hall. He saw a huge man, red in the face, wringing Harry's neck with fat, meaty hands. It didn't look like a serious attempt to kill Harry, but Draco held out a warning hand—wishing he had his wand to better intimidate the simple Muggles—and spoke in a frigid voice, "You will _desist_ , sir."

Vernon looked up to see the pale blond boy who was just his own height and pointing a thin hand at him. The Muggle man spoke scornfully, but he had relaxed his hold on Harry, "You can't use any of your tricks here, freak. Your ministry will arrest you."

Draco looked at him with the most heartless look he could summon. "I am a Dark wizard, you idiot Muggle, and I don't give a damn about the ministry or their rules." He could see the first flicker of horror in those bellicose eyes. He told the man softly, "And I've always managed to kill without magic just fine."

The fear was now pouring off the fat man in waves, and he jumped violently when a horn went off outside. Draco smiled, and it was a predatory expression. He told Vernon, "That must be our taxi." Harry jerked around to look at him, and the blond nodded imperceptibly. His eyes flicked back to the Muggle. "So I suggest you drop the boy. Harry will be leaving with me, or _no one_ will be leaving here."

Obeying in a hurry, Vernon fled back downstairs and barricaded himself in the sitting room with his wife, leaving Harry and Draco standing in silence at the top of the stairs.

"Am I being kidnapped then?" Harry said, voice strained with some emotion that Draco couldn't identify. The blond flinched, realizing what he'd said.

"No. I was just trying to scare the Muggle." He shook his head, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "You're perfectly welcome to remain here with your charming relatives." He hesitated. He'd meant to explain things, to leave Potter with some closure, but maybe this was better. It was certainly easier. "I'd thought I might answer any questions, if you still had them—but, well, the taxi is waiting. So."

He slid around Harry, frozen in the hall, and started down the stairs, slowly lowering his weight onto each step that was taking him farther away from the only person in his life who had ever seemed (for however brief a time it had been) to care about him without expecting to get anything tangible in return. And Draco truly had given him nothing in return. Actually, no, it was worse than that—he'd given him new scars.

"Have room for one more?"

Draco stilled, one foot coming to rest on the lower step. "It's a taxi, Potter," he said, not turning around. "They're generally designed for more than single occupancy." When Harry didn't say anything more, Draco looked over his shoulder. "I could drop you in London, if you want. Seems the least I could do." _It's all I can do._

Harry gave a jerky nod. "Just give me a moment."

So Draco went out the front door, where the cabbie had honked his horn once again. He spoke with the driver as Harry threw his things together and banged his large trunk down the stairs, deliberately denting the walls with it as he went. Neither boy looked one another in the eye as they hoisted Harry's trunk down the front drive and lifted it into the boot, each sliding into the back seat of the taxi from opposite sides of the car before it started up and drove away from Privet Drive.

"Diagon Alley will do, I assume?" Draco asked, settling against the back of the car seat with a careful air. Harry saw the unease in the other boy, but he couldn't say if it was due to Malfoy's unfamiliarity with Muggle vehicles or his own presence.

Should he go to Diagon Alley? Harry hadn't thought through what he was doing when he'd followed Draco out of his uncle's house. He simply hadn't been ready to see Draco disappear once again, right in front of his eyes, and so he'd followed after the boy as if his feet knew better than his heart or his brain.

He _could_ take out a room at the Leaky Cauldron. He had piles of gold in the bank. And he'd hardly ever seen London, mostly cutting across the capital on his way to King's Cross each year. Perhaps he could take the summer to really explore the city. Be a tourist. Ride one of those buses full of camera-toting American Muggles who would never look twice at a stranger with singular green eyes and a lightning-bolt shaped scar peaking through his messy black hair.

Instead of agreeing, though, Harry found himself asking, "Is that where you're going? Diagon Alley?"

"No."

When Draco didn't elaborate, Harry felt a tongue of annoyance flicker back to life. "Then are you going to explain things? Isn't that what you said?"

He watched as the blond twitched, his jaw tightening before he began to speak. "It's like I said before: you already know most of the story. I was Marked in the summer. There was a plan to use me to get to you, to bring you to Voldemort. I'd befriended you for that purpose, so that you might accept a portkey from me and keep it on you to be summoned at the right moment." He kept his eyes fixed on the back of the Muggle driver's head, as the man did a good job keeping his eyes on the road and ignoring the strange talk going on in the back seat. "I just didn't tell that I had my own plans to kill Voldemort."

"You might have mentioned it," Harry suggested, dry and bitter.

"And it might have gone wrong if I did." Draco ran a hand through his long hair, allowing some of his frustration to show. "You might have thought I was lying. You might have let him pull the information from your head. You might have got us both killed."

"As if your plans weren't just as likely to get us both killed! You certainly might've got me killed—not that you gave me any say in the matter!"

"I know!" Draco hurled back. His gray eyes snapped to Harry's face once, before he turned away again, face closed up and angry. "It was—" He broke off, shook his head, tried again. "Look, Potter. Relying on other people isn't—" He gave up on that direction as well. "I was trapped, all right? And maybe I wasn't thinking clearly. But no one has ever saved me from any other bad thing in my life. There was no reason to think this time would be different. The only person I knew I could trust in was myself."

Harry didn't say anything to that. He didn't know every fact of Draco's life, but he knew some things. He knew Lucius had been an awful man with impossible standards of what a Pureblood wizard should be. He'd got the impression that Narcissa was cold and distant with Draco, and she certainly hadn't protected her son from Voldemort. He'd seen that Malfoy's 'friends' in Slytherin hadn't cared enough about him as a person to even hesitate before cutting themselves off from him. And there were hints—like the scars that lashed the pale white skin of Malfoy's Pureblooded back—that he'd suffered through more than just cruel words and neglect at some point in his life.

"Why did you need me there?" Harry asked, instead of returning to the painful argument.

Draco was relieved. This question was easier to answer, only requiring facts and not touching on any feelings. "I couldn't get Voldemort alone otherwise. He never met with us alone."

"But he would meet with you alone if I was there? Why?"

Draco's lips tightened. "I'd managed to suggest to him that it would be better. Not to be embarrassed in front of his ranks if you were to get away again."

Letting his head fall back against the chair behind him, Harry tried to fit these new facts into the picture he'd already built of what had happened. "So that was it? All of it, just so that you could get a chance of facing off against him one-on-one?"

"You also provided a distraction. And a weapon."

Harry started. "A weapon? You mean that's why you made me promise that night..."

_That night._

He didn't finish his sentence, and neither of them said anything more for several minutes, the car rolling down the motorway and the dull hum of the tires and the engine filling the space for them.

"So there you have it," Draco said at last. "Unless you have any other questions, that's it. I planned all along to try to kill Voldemort, and I simply didn't trust you enough to let you in on it. Everything I did to you, I did knowing that I would betray your faith in me and your—friendship." He stumbled over the last word before pressing his lips back into a grim smile. "Four months of lies for four minutes with Voldemort. That's the kind of person I am. There's your explanation."

They traveled another mile or two down the M25 before Harry asked, "Are you going to go back to Hogwarts?"

Malfoy slowly shook his head. "I don't expect that I will be. Just think—you'll never have to be outshone by me in front of all your mates again. Never have to even see me again." He gave the Gryffindor a smile that he hoped might be bracing. Or perhaps it was just a grimace. Either way, Potter was staring at him with a nauseated look. "Now with that happy thought to buoy you along, go enjoy the rest of your holidays in London. Or go find the Weasel or Granger. Have a nice rest-of-your-life, Potter. I really am sorry for nearly ending it."

Harry said hollowly, "Hermione's in France, and Ron and Ginny are visiting their brother Charlie in Romania—he works with the dragons there." Draco still had that forced smile plastered on his face, until Harry said, "What if I said I think I'd rather come with you instead?"

The blond looked away. "I don't know where I'm going."

The Gryffindor quickly retorted, "Yes, you do."

Draco went still and then admitted, "Yes, I do." Before Harry could insist again, he continued, "But I don't have anything to offer you, Potter."

And perhaps they both knew that they weren't only talking about summer accommodations when the Gryffindor told Draco, "I think you might. I think you just won't."


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 20**

THE CONVERSATION HAD DIED BETWEEN the two boys, and even the taxi driver didn't dare intrude on their silence. (All the talk of killing might've put him off, to be fair.) Harry sat uncomfortably stiff. He could feel the slight warmth of Draco's body to his side, unable to be anything other than hypersensitive to the boy's presence. The Slytherin seemed ready to sit through the remaining half-hour of the trip in silence, but Harry couldn't stand more than a few minutes of it.

"Tell me something," he blurted out.

Draco looked at him from the corner of his eye. He asked Harry tiredly, "Of course. What do you want to know?"

But the Gryffindor only shook his messy head. "No. It wasn't a question. Just say something." Draco's brows came down in confusion, and Harry sighed, a slight burn in his cheeks. He shifted on the hard car seat. "I don't care what it is. Explain where you've been the past half year. Recite _Quidditch Through the Ages_. Teach me rude French for all I care. Just talk about _something,_ would you? It's a long drive." _And I can't bear to be alone with my thoughts._

Draco looked skeptical, but he said, "All right then, Potter. French it is. Repeat after me: _Je suis un imbécile anglais et vous devrais me facturer le double du prix normal._ "

" _What?_ There's no way I can repeat all that."

The blond snorted, but he repeated the long sentence several times, breaking it up into smaller pieces for Harry to repeat until, after several minutes, he managed the whole thing in one go. Harry had seen written French occasionally in his life and knew that sometimes the words looked the same or nearly the same as English, but he couldn't pick out any meaning from the unfamiliar sounds when spoken. But it gave him something to fill his mind and his mouth beyond his own whirling thoughts.

Once he'd mastered repeating the whole line at last, he asked, "And what does it mean?"

Draco smirked. "That you're an English idiot and deserve to be charged twice the going rate on anything you buy."

Harry frowned, and the silence washed back over the two boys.

Finally Draco was the one to ask, "Did you mean it?"

The Gryffindor asked shortly, "What? That I was a English idiot?"

"No, I already know that's true. I'm asking if you really meant what you said earlier."

Harry sighed, letting go of his petulant anger, though it left him only feeling weary and lost again. The anger had been easier. "I generally mean everything that I say, but what specifically?"

The silver eyes were watching him closely again as Draco clarified, "That you might—rather come with me."

Draco hadn't let any hint of what he was thinking color his voice or his expression. Harry didn't have the same control. He had no choice but to turn his gaze to the front windshield, afraid of what he might give away otherwise. He didn't know what he wanted to do. But the idea of getting out of the taxi at the Leaky Cauldron and never seeing Draco again had wrenched the words out of him, just as when he'd watched Draco walk down the stairs in his uncle's house and known it might be the last time he ever saw the blond. He still had questions. He still had doubts and feelings that would haunt him a very long time if he didn't put them to rest now, while he had the chance.

"I did," Harry said at last. Then he pushed back, issuing a challenge to see how Draco would respond. "Do you want me to come with you?"

Harry had said it out loud and oh-so-direct. Draco's mouth was dry. He'd told himself he would make a clean break. He'd told himself that he would answer whatever questions Harry had, and then let go and watch the boy walk away. Was it his fault if Harry chose instead to follow him even after he'd been cut free?

"Do you really think that's a good idea?" he asked. Harry was the one who had been hurt the most, surely. He ought to know better.

"No," Harry agreed. "Of course not. It's probably a terrible idea."

It was an echo of the same argument they'd had the day they'd reconciled, right before Christmas. A weak smile appeared on Draco's face. "Then why do it?"

"I guess I don't want any regrets."

The words struck Draco like a physical blow, like a bullet fired from a gun. "You must already have regrets," he said, his voice hardly audible in the back of the taxi. 

Harry's eyes searched his, looking for something there he could understand. "Do you?"

" _Yes_."

They held each others' eyes for several moments, and Draco wondered if he'd admitted too much. He shouldn't be encouraging Harry. He shouldn't be giving the fool some idea that Draco could somehow make up for what he'd done or that they could go back to what they'd had before. But he did have regrets, and he did want Harry to know that he was sorry. Harry should know that it wasn't his fault Draco had done something so terrible to him.

"Then maybe I don't want any _more_ regrets," Harry said, still watching Draco's face. He repeated, quieter now and even more serious, "Would you want me to come with you, Draco?"

A strange expression flickered across the boy's face, too quick for Harry to understand what it meant, and Draco said, "You shouldn't."

"I know." Harry's mouth quirked up for the first time in the hint of a wry smile. "I'm not as stupid as you think I am, Malfoy."

"You say that," Draco pointed out with a hint of his old drawl, "and then you insist on doing incredibly stupid things like this."

"Says the idiot Death Eater who thought he could kill Voldemort single-handedly."

"I think you'll find that I succeeded."

"I'm pretty sure you said you needed _me_ there to do it," Harry shot back, something tight and breathless in his chest as they joked about some of the worst moments of their lives. Could they still do this? Were they allowed to smile at one another and laugh over the terrible things Draco had done? Harry bit his lip. Then he said impulsively, "Give me a choice this time, Malfoy. You took away all my choices back then. But I still have questions that I want answered, so let me decide for myself where I want to go."

Draco's face twisted. But he gave a sharp nod. Then he leaned forward to rattle off a new set of instructions to the taxi driver, directing him to carry on north around London and up into Oxfordshire. It took them some negotiation, since the driver wasn't familiar with whatever town it was Draco was trying to get to, but at least Draco seemed to know what he wanted, naming Muggle motorways and towns with apparent ease. None of the directions meant anything to Harry, but they certainly weren't going to Diagon Alley any longer.

A sick sort of nervousness roiled in Harry's stomach as he wondered what he had just gotten himself into. But he wouldn't have to stay. He had a wand again. He knew how to take care of himself. He could summon the Knight Bus or jump on his broom and be gone in a flash, if this ended up to be a terrible idea. It wasn't like Malfoy could hand him over to Voldemort a second time—and Harry didn't want to leave anything unfinished any longer. He wanted to answer the questions that still lingered in his mind and in his heart. And then, once he was satisfied, maybe he would finally be able to walk away without looking over his shoulder any longer.

As the taxi carried on into the golden light, the sun growing lower in the sky, Harry asked the boy riding next to him, "So how do you say, 'I'm a poncy French bastard who shouldn't be trusted farther than you can throw me'?"

* * *

THEY HAD EXHAUSTED THE LIMITS of Harry's memory and Draco's patience before the hour-long trip was over, and then rude French was also out as a means of distraction. Wary silence crept back around them again, as Draco stared moodily out the window, and Harry leaned against the taxi's door. At some point, they had ended up about as far from one another as they could be in the back of the taxi. Harry eyed the space between them. A quick glance upward confirmed that Draco wasn't looking at him, and so he allowed himself to stare without reserve at the blond Slytherin. The interior of the cab wasn't very bright, but the low sunlight streaming in through the window threw bars of warm yellow light across the boy, sliding over the edges of his sharp face.

Harry was sure that his memory wasn't simply faulty. Draco really did look different. He was noticeably thinner, his face showing it the most—the familiar planes seeming even harsher than before. And his voice had been huskier when he spoke than it used to be, sounding scratchy and unused. Harry still hadn't asked where Draco had been for the past sixth months, but it didn't seem like it could have been anywhere very pleasant.

The muscles around Draco's pale lips were strained, as if the boy were clenching his jaw shut. He was sitting straight and tall, as he always had. Years of relentless training ensured that his posture was always impeccable, without him even needing to think about it. Harry was suddenly aware of how he was slouched against the hard car door. He shifted, trying to appear to straighten casually. Draco still didn't look away from the window.

The blond's hair was longer than perhaps Harry had ever seen it. Last year it had usually brushed the tips of his ears, but now it was long enough that the boy had it tucked behind his ears, the impossibly fair strands curling slightly around his lobes. It looked as it had been cut without much expertise: the ends were rough and uneven, jaggedly trailing across his white skin. That was also a first for the Malfoy boy. He had never looked less than perfectly groomed in public. And there were deep shadows underneath Draco's silver eyes, which seemed to be held in a permanent wince now, flinching away from bright lights as he drew those pale lashes down protectively. Tracing the lines of the white brows that were drawn in over those wary eyes, Harry was so caught up in his study that he jumped when the other boy suddenly spoke.

"You know, I can see you staring at me."

Harry swallowed hard. Draco's eyes shifted so that his reflection on the window was looking back at the Gryffindor. The warm light had made a mirror of the clear glass, and apparently the other boy had been using it to study Harry even as he had been studying Draco.

"Draco..." He licked his lips and then blurted out the first thing that floated to the top of his jumbled thoughts. "Malfoy, what happened to you?"

The other boy's eyes moved away, focusing again on the passing shapes of dark trees and tall street lights. "Nothing I didn't deserve."

* * *

IT WAS PAST SEVEN BY the time Draco directed the driver off the M40, pointing him through the last few turnings until he told the man to stop outside the lane leading to neat and tidy pub in Ludgershall, a tiny hamlet about halfway between the larger cities of Oxford and Aylesbury. He paid the man in Muggle money, overtipping absurdly. He would have rather used a Memory Charm, but he hoped that good old-fashioned bribery would work nearly as well to keep the man from thinking too hard about whether he should tell anyone where he'd dropped off two strange young men who'd been discussing a fair bit of murder in the back of his cab.

Harry had fallen asleep in a cramped huddle against the car door, and Draco nudged the other boy's foot with one of his own, not daring to touch any other part of him. "Wake up, you lazy sot."

The blond watched as Harry shook himself awake, blinking up at him. He was surprised when Harry then jumped upright and grabbed his arm in a bruising tight grip. "Malfoy?" the boy asked, eyes wild with a strange urgency.

Draco felt his own eyes go wide as he asked cautiously, "Yes, Potter?"

The dark-haired boy sagged back into the seat. He fumbled for the glasses in his jacket pocket, saying, "I thought for a moment... Sorry." He pushed his lenses back on and looked down at his hands. Clearing his throat, Harry tried to change the subject by asking, "Where are we?"

The Slytherin was still eying him warily as he said, "Buckinghamshire. Just over the border from Oxfordshire. Come on." Then he slipped out of the car, going around to the boot and pulling out Harry's trunk before Harry himself could get to it. Once they had it safely on the pavement, the taxi driver sped off into the evening with one last strange look in his rear-view mirror.

They stood side-by-side for a moment in the unfamiliar landscape, surrounded by green fields that were dotted with occasional homes of red brick and creamy plaster. There was no one else in sight, no people or even cars out at on the lonely country lane at this hour of the evening.

"Why are we in Buckinghamshire exactly?" Harry asked, looked around them at the quiet Muggle settlement.

"Hold on," Draco said, glancing around as he heaved Harry's trunk on its end. Then he Disapparated with a soft pop, taking the trunk with him. Harry's eyes attempted to separate themselves from his head.

After staring into the empty space that Draco had been occupying for several long moments, the Gryffindor plopped down onto the ground with a sincerely expressed, " _Fuck_." He grumbled to himself as he peered at the homes in the distance, "Great, Potter. Now you've been abandoned by your Death Eater ex-boyfriend in some Muggle nowhere—and he's taken all your things with him. Abso-bloody-lutely brilliant—"

Luckily Draco reappeared in front of him right then with another small popping sound. He dropped next to Harry on the side of the road and continued his explanation, as if he hadn't just nearly abandoned Harry in the middle of nowhere, "My father has a home nearby. I'd been planning to crash there, since I don't think anyone else knew about this particular estate—and my father left a great number of wards and charms to ensure that it wouldn't be found out. Now that we are free of that truly cyclopean trunk of yours, we can wander over as soon as you're ready."

The Gryffindor was glaring at him, and Draco asked simply, "What?"

Harry didn't reply, though he got up and started down the road in what he hoped was the right direction. The Slytherin pushed himself up and trailed after the boy. "What, Potter? What's eating at you now?"

Harry waited for him to catch up, noting that Malfoy's mood seemed to have swung back again, the blond ready to mock and talk normally once more. It was easier to deal with than his gloom in the car, at least. It was familiar, even if it shouldn't feel familiar any longer. "It's nothing. Just give me a little warning next time you're going to disappear." He kept his tone even, too tired to start another fight already.

Draco settled into an easy pace next to the slighter boy. He said slowly, "I guess it must have been a bit of a shock." Once again they might be talking about more than just the topic at hand. Draco cleared his throat and moved away from the dangerous territory by asking, "By the way, where are you leading us?"

"Me?!" Harry exclaimed. "I don't know! I thought you would say something if I was going in the wrong direction!"

"Ah. In that case, you're going in the wrong direction," Draco supplied. He jerked his chin back over his shoulder. "We need to be walking that way if we want to get to the house. Plus that was a pub back there, and if you plan on eating anything tonight, that's probably our only shot at getting food this late in the evening out here in the country."

Shooting the blond a poisonous look, Harry turned around and stalked back down the road they'd just walked. "You might've said something sooner."

"I think we've already established that as one of my faults," Malfoy agreed, matching Harry's pace as he ticked off on his fingers, "Keeping back information, not telling you what I ought to..."

"I can't believe you're making jokes about this."

Draco considered how to respond for a moment, before opting for something like honesty and saying, "I don't know how else to get through it." He kept his eyes on the distant pub, growing closer again with every step.

 _I don't know how to get through it at all,_ Harry thought. But he didn't say a thing aloud.

* * *

THE PUB LOOKED LIKE ANY of the other large country houses around the town. It would have been easy to miss, tucked away down a long lane, if you didn't know it was there and you overlooked the large outdoor light that tried to draw attention to name emblazoned on its side. Draco held the door open and waved Harry inside, and they were soon seated at a dark wood table inside the high-ceilinged room. They got a few looks, but it wasn't entirely rare to see visitors stopping in. It was one of the only pubs for miles, and they were only about a half-hour out of Oxford by car. Students sometimes wandered through while exploring the surrounding countryside.

"You do realize I don't have any Muggle money on me, right?" Harry asked, as they stared at the menus provided by the woman working among the tables.

Draco shrugged. "I suppose footing your bill will just have to be another part of my penance then. Do your worst."

"I should order everything they've got on offer," Harry muttered, looking for the most expensive option on the menu, though he didn't have any intention of actually ordering any such thing.

The woman brought by the ginger beer that Draco had ordered as soon as they'd sat down, and he took it from the Muggle with a distracted nod. "Go on then. Put your dent in the Malfoy fortune. Drain the vaults dry." He took a sip of his drink. "You'll be robbing me of my inheritance and once again stealing from my father. It's like killing two Dark Lords with one stone."

Harry glared over the top of the menu. But things were easier as long as they both went on hiding behind the sort of banter they'd once been used to. There was a falseness about it, but neither boy was terribly interested in having a painfully honest argument in a room crowded with other patrons who were simply trying to enjoy a nice roast or evening tipple.

"Maybe I ought to offer to pay off every tab on the house," Harry suggested, an aggressive glint in the green eyes behind his glasses. "Think of it—all that carefully hoarded Pureblood gold paying for a bunch of Muggles getting sozzled out in the country."

Draco was nodding along as he agreed, "It's a good start. But I'm afraid the Malfoys are far richer than you seem to appreciate. We're going to have to think much bigger." His eyes swept over Harry, his glass still held to his lips before he took another sip. "The next expenditure should probably be an entirely new wardrobe for you. It's long overdue, and my father would _love_ to think how he'd put the clothes on Harry Potter's back, I'm sure."

A snort of laughter escaped Harry, and he kept his eyes trained on the words of the paper menu in his hands. He listened to Draco's familiar drawl as he outlined more and more outrageous plans for his fortune—funding a private library of Muggle literature for Hermione, the latest model of racing brooms for all of Hogwarts's Quidditch teams (since Lucius was obviously such a big supporter), a gaudy gold statue of Harry to be constructed in the middle of Diagon Alley—and he didn't dare look up, because his heart was breaking and he didn't think he could hold the pieces together if he saw Draco's face alive and lit up once again with that wicked humor he remembered all too well.

 _I still love him_.

Then:

_Well, that's one question answered._

Harry hadn't ever admitted to himself that he did love Malfoy, not in the brief months when they were together and not in all the months since he'd disappeared. But just as undeniable as it was that Malfoy was now sitting in front of Harry once again, it was equally undeniable how he felt about the boy. Malfoy had lied to him, hadn't trusted him, had put his life at risk, had betrayed and murdered people, had disappeared without explanation for months, and still Harry loved him in a way that made his chest feel like it might burst.

But Harry forced himself to look up. He made himself laugh and mock. He ordered a reasonably priced chicken dinner, and he and Draco knocked glasses to toast to how Lucius would be rolling in his jail cell if he only knew what they were doing with his money. He let Draco pick the topics of conversation, and the blond knew better than to bring up anything real. And when they were both done eating, Draco threw his napkin on the table and thanked Harry for being such a lovely date—and he saw how something died inside the boy's green eyes and hurriedly tried to snatch the words back.

"No. Sorry. That wasn't—"

Harry shook his head and hurried outside ahead of Draco, even less able to deal with Draco being _kind_ to him than the mockery. Because it had been a date, hadn't it? Their very first date, the very first time they ate a meal out together outside of school, talking and drinking and joking. Only it had come six months too late.

The blond settled the bill and came out to stand beside Harry under the inky night sky, outside the country pub in the middle of nowhere where they'd pretended for forty-five minutes that they weren't who they really were to one another. He shoved his hands in his pockets so he wouldn't try to reach for Harry's hand. "We can call the Knight Bus. I don't trust myself to try Side-Along Apparition, but I can go get your trunk for you and be back here in a moment."

Harry glanced over at him, too lost in his own confused emotions to make sense of the offer. Draco shrugged, his face carefully controlled again like it so often used to be. "If you've decided you'd rather go back to London after all."

When there wasn't any sort of reply for several long moments, Draco turned to look at Harry. The dark-haired boy was staring down at the lane, his jaw clenched tight, and Draco squeezed his hands into fists in his pockets. He'd made things worse, just as he'd known he would. He should have refused from the start. "Come on, Harry," he pleaded. "This isn't helping anything. Either curse me or punch me or go back to London and just forget all this."

 _What if I think I'd rather kiss you instead?_ Harry bit down even harder to keep the thought contained. "Is it a long walk from here to the house?"

Draco looked at him helplessly, but eventually he nodded. "About a half hour, if I remember right," he said, his voice hollowed out and empty.

Harry looked up the road, facing up the opposite way as he'd stormed off in before. "This way, right?"

And Draco could only agree. So they set off through the black night, no street lights or even houses to relieve the darkness for most the way. But the sky overhead was a tapestry of stars as a result, hazy clouds of light sprinkled with thousands of pinpricks of white fire. Draco wasn't sure he knew the way after all these years, but luckily there were almost no places to turn, so eventually he hit the crossroad where a sign pointed the way towards Kingswood, and they turned up the road to keep walking among the hedges. And then eventually there was a worn path that branched off to the right, barred by gate that had weeds growing up and around it. Draco climbed over it, and Harry followed his example, and they navigated the uneven lane to arrive at the dark boxy shape of an isolated house squatting among the woods. It had taken them closer to an hour, stumbling in the dark, but they'd made it.

There, sitting beside the front door, was Harry's trunk where Draco had left it earlier when he'd Apparated over on his own for a moment. This time, Draco placed his left hand on the door's handle and said questioningly, " _Puis-je entrer?_ " There was a click, then Draco gripped the handle and the door swung open easily.

Harry spoke tiredly from beside him, "Somehow I don't think that little trick will work for me."

Draco's lips twisted into something like a smile. "I bet there's a key somewhere."

They each took hold of one end of the trunk to drag it into the dark entryway, stumbling and banging it against their shins. Draco wasn't familiar enough to remember where any light switches might be, but at least he had a better idea of the layout than Harry did. He led the Gryffindor to a bedroom in the back of the house and pushed him towards the door.

"There," he said, not looking at the dark-haired boy standing alone in the shadowy room. "Get some sleep. You can ask more of your questions in the morning." _Then you can go._

And he fled to find himself a couch to sleep on.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O-oh no. More than a decade later, I basically wrote a whole new chapter that didn't used to exist. Sorry for the delay, but it felt necessary...?

**Chapter 21**

HARRY WOKE UP IN A room that he had never seen before. For a moment, his breath caught and he was seized with a sense of panic, but then he remembered that it was Malfoy's place. Then he remembered Malfoy.

He rolled off the bed and rushed out the bedroom door. The hallway he found himself in was no more familiar, but when he looked to the right there was only the open door to another empty bedroom. He headed left, glancing into a pristine kitchen as he passed it, and finally found himself in the living room.

Lying asleep in the morning sun, sprawled over a sofa with one arm over his face, was Draco Malfoy in the flesh. Harry stopped at the edge of the room and drank in the sight, heart pounding. _It's going to take a while to get used to that._ He let himself tiptoe over and sat gingerly on the edge of the coffee table to look at the sleeping boy. Against the brick red coloring of the sofa's leather upholstery, the Slytherin looked even more ill than he had the day before. He was definitely much thinner than he used to be—possibly worse than Harry now, and Harry had always been the smaller of the two of them—and even asleep, Draco had dark smudges staining the skin under his eyes.

Harry reached out to brush that silvery-white hair, but he caught himself just in time. _I can't do things like that anymore._ He got off the table (probably good, since the poor thing wasn't designed to hold a person's weight) and headed for the kitchen instead. It was spacious and fairly modern, with a whole range of Muggle appliances. At the other end of it, in front of the large set of bay windows, was a dining table big enough to seat eight people. Atop this was a vase of carefully arranged fake flowers, and there were decorative plates mounted on the walls. Harry was more and more convinced that Lucius must have bought (or taken) this house from someone else—and probably a Muggle someone else. Nothing in it was at all the cold marble and family portraits that one would expect from a Malfoy property. It looked like a perfectly normal country cottage.

In the kitchen, Harry gave the refrigerator door an experimental tug and quickly frowned. There was nothing inside, not even some old moldering condiments or one of those plastic trays for storing eggs. Every shelf and cubby was bare. He pulled open the freezer next, and the only thing littering its empty shelves were two ice-cube trays. Also empty. There was a fancy stove and oven, and neatly arranged on the vast counter-tops were small appliances, a set of knives, canisters for staples. Pulling one of the large canisters toward him, which would usually be full of flour or sugar, Harry worked the airtight top off to find it empty. Not even a few grains in it. The container looked like it had never been used at all. Harry was beginning to have a bad feeling, which was directly linked to the hollow ache in his stomach, and so he started pulling open cabinets. Dishes. Bowls. Glasses. Pans. Drawers of silverware, measuring implements, and other kitchen paraphernalia. But nowhere any food.

Harry decided they were going to have a little talk when Draco woke, or if this grumbling in his stomach was any indication, even sooner. Muttering to himself, he headed back down the hallway in search of a bathroom. After a couple of closets, he found a bathroom with a shower. Then he had to find his trunk, which he finally remembered they'd left in the entryway, and then at least he got to use the facilities and feel clean for the first time after all that yardwork the day before, washing away the last taint of the Dursleys.

Showering and putting on fresh clothes helped with the illusion that Harry was in control of the situation, so he was feeling a bit better as he wandered back into the living room of the strange house. But the feeling leeched away as soon as he did. Draco was flailing in his sleep and muttering something in French. For a moment, Harry stopped in his tracks. The blond was protesting feebly, sounding like he was begging: " _Non, mère, non. Je ne voulais pas..._ "

No sooner had Harry started to reach down to wake the boy than Draco bolted upright. He was heaving great, gulping breaths, and one hand was clenched to his chest. Suddenly Harry was concerned about more than just his sleep habits as he remembered the complications of life with Draco. "You all right?" he demanded. The blond nodded rapidly, though he didn't say anything as he struggled to slow his breathing.

As soon as the Slytherin got control of himself, Harry was disappointed to see the regular mask slide into place. Malfoy tucked himself away inside his walls, swinging his legs off the sofa as he sat upright and ran his hands through his ragged hair.

"What was that all about?" Harry asked, standing a few feet away. It felt impossible to sit down on the sofa beside Draco.

"Nothing." Draco shrugged, still blinking. "Just a nightmare." He sucked in a deep breath, gave himself a little shake. "What are you up to? You want something to eat?"

"Maybe I would, but you do realize there is no food in this place?"

Draco twisted from side to side, his spine popping with the motion, and Harry winced at the sound. "So we'll go into town and get something. There used to be a shop in a little village to the south, Brill. Probably still there." Harry raised an eyebrow, but it wasn't like he had any better idea. He had no idea where he even was on a map.

When the blond stood and headed right for the front door, though, Harry said in surprise, "You don't want to change or anything? You were in those clothes all night."

"I've been in these clothes a lot longer than that," Draco muttered, head down as he stepped into his mud-caked shoes by the front door. "Besides, I don't have anything else. It'll do."

Harry hurried to follow as Draco pushed the front door open and stepped out into the sunlight. Shoving on his own shoes again, he tumbled out in a rush, the door swinging shut behind him. "You don't want to lock it after us?" he asked the blond, who was already walking away.

"Go on and try to open it then," Malfoy said, a bit of humor in his voice for the first time.

Turning back, Harry tried the handle of the front door. It might as well have been carved from stone. He shot Draco a look. "You know, all my things are still in there. Inside the house that I now can't get into."

Something uncomfortable passed over Draco's face, and he strode back to push the door open, holding it for Harry. "Sorry. If you want to take your things with you, we can probably shrink them down or something."

Harry blinked up at him, flummoxed to have Draco standing barely a foot away, stretching one arm out and leaning past him to hold the door open. He'd been expecting a mocking comment or a breezy dismissal, not to suddenly have the blond there in his personal space. "It's fine," he muttered. "I was just pointing the fact out."

It was a moment or two before Draco let the door fall shut again, clearing his throat. "Right. Then on we go." He turned on his heel and strode away.

Trailing a few steps behind, Harry looked the blond over from head to foot. "Why don't you have any other clothes?"

"Didn't bring any with me."

Harry narrowed his eyes and asked the real question. "Then where have you been all this time?" It seemed to Harry that Draco faltered for a moment, his smooth gait losing its easy swing, but he didn't slow down or stop. He didn't say anything either. "I thought you were going to answer all my questions?"

"I'm thinking."

"What's there to think about?"

"How much to say."

Kicking at a stone in the road, Harry snapped, "Why? You don't have to plot out every little thing you say anymore. There's no more act to protect, right? You could just tell the truth."

Draco sounded bitter as he grumbled, "I might still want to protect myself." Harry felt his eyebrows shoot up, but he waited for the other boy to say more. They continued to walk like that, Harry trailing behind and with nothing to look at but the back of Malfoy's blond head, as Draco slowly began to put the words together. "I never went anywhere. Until I went to Surrey yesterday. I was at Malfoy Manor the entire time."

Harry waited a moment, then pointed out, "I would think you'd have a whole wardrobe there."

"Not in the part of the manor where I was." Draco cleared his throat, trying to shake the hoarseness from his voice. "I was in the dungeons."

The morning light was clear and warm on the summer morning, birdsong filtering through the hedges that lined the long country road. Harry's thoughts chased after one another until he managed to catch a few to put them into words. "But the Aurors searched the manor after..."

"I guess they didn't search hard enough then," the blond said, tilting his head back and forcing himself to chuckle. Harry heard the shaky breath he took before continuing. "My mother found me outside the building where... That day. After I sent you back and...and took care of the other Death Eaters."

 _So it really was you?_ Harry had suspected that Draco must've had a hand in the fire, even if the ministry had closed their investigation, and he wanted to ask _why_. He wanted to know what had made Draco do a thing like that. But that was a different question, for a different time.

"She wasn't very pleased with my actions," Draco said. "So she threw me in the dungeons. In the oubliette. For...well, months, I guess it's been." His voice was almost light, but in a desperate way.

Harry knew it would be a bad idea to ask but the question was burning in his mouth: "What's an 'oubliette'?"

It took a while for Draco to answer and when he did, it was deceptively simple: "It's a hole, Potter. A small hole where you leave people and forget about them. Meters deep with unscalable walls, and nothing but the dark to keep them company." He lifted his shoulders in a shrug, and Harry watched the motion shifting the black cloth of the boy's sweater. "It isn't that bad for only a day or two. It's bad, but nothing compared to..."

He trailed off, and Harry filled in the rest for himself. _Nothing compared to months on end, with absolutely nothing to distract you from the terrible things you'd done._ "You've been in there before?" Harry asked, and he could see Draco's short nod. "Your mother?" Another nod.

"But eventually she made a mistake. Let me up one day for a different sort of punishment. And I got away. Though I didn't stop to grab much." He sounded almost normal again, as he drawled, "An outfit for every occasion wasn't really my top priority when fleeing for my life. So, any other pressing questions?"

The offer sounded more like a plea to do the exact opposite. _Please don't ask me anything more_. And while Harry did have questions, he wasn't sure that the answers belonged to him. Draco had explained why he had disappeared and never come back to apologize or explain sooner. It wasn't necessarily Harry's right to know everything his mother had done to him, either since Christmas or before. Draco might owe him a lot of things, but he didn't owe him that.

"Not right now," Harry said softly.

And so the two boys walked down the long road, cars passing them now and again. There were other houses off the side of the road here and there, but mostly empty fields. It grew warmer as the sun rose higher, and Harry found himself pulling his baggy tee-shirt away from his body, trying to get a bit of fresh air to dry the sweat slowly dripping down his back. He couldn't imagine how Malfoy wasn't dying in his long-sleeved winter pullover.

"Aren't you hot?" he asked, after they'd been walking in silence for more than ten minutes. The blond shrugged, but Harry had some guess why he hadn't even tried to roll up his sleeves in concession to the warm English sun. "You know, the Mark probably isn't that bad any longer."

Draco started, and he looked back over his shoulder for the first time since they'd left the house. "What do you mean?"

Harry stepped up closer and caught the other boy's arm. Draco jerked to a stop as Harry pushed the dark black sleeve up his arm, fingers sliding over bare skin. The Mark still showed on Draco's pale flesh, but it looked like an old scar now—just a few tones darker than the natural skin. It might not even be noticeable if you didn't know what to look for. Draco stared at his arm in surprise, and Harry explained, "From what I gathered from some of Snape's comments, the last time Voldemort was gone, the Dark Mark faded." He let go of that frail arm to rub a hand over his own chest and said ruefully, "Better than mine. It hasn't faded at all."

Draco started walking again, and he was still running a hand over the watered-down tattoo as he asked, "You still have that scar then?"

Harry fell into step beside him this time. "Always will, or so I'm told. Not a great help for picking up girls at the beach."

Draco's lips quirked, as if they were friends and not former lovers or whatever they might be now, "Have you been _trying_ to pick up girls at the beach, Potter? Because I'd pay good money to see that."

Harry pulled a face. "Hardly." Then he stole a slanting look at Draco. "I've got standards."

They fell back into their usual banter—often insulting, occasionally just this side of flirting—and it was easy and exhilarating and confusing. There was a small sign for Brill, and then the homes started to come a little closer together until eventually they were walking on the streets of an actual town. They passed a small fire station and what felt like a mile of houses, but in the end, Draco's memory had been correct and they found the small shop that served as the only grocer for miles.

Luckily it was already open for the day, so the two boys slipped inside. It only had ten or so aisles, but it had everything you might need to survive for normal daily living. Of course, Draco had little idea what a person might need for normal daily living (especially if one were living without house elves), so it largely fell to Harry to think of what the empty house might need. They finally staggered out the door again, after thirty-some minutes of bickering, laden with six plastic grocery bags. (They'd mostly fought over what to add to their baskets: Draco wanting to add anything that caught his attention, while Harry's restrictive upbringing made him balk at the idea that anyone could truly _need_ to get every variety of McVities in a single shopping trip.)

Sitting down on the edge of the road outside the shop, Draco sorted through the bags, trying to make them more manageable while also searching for food. He tossed an apple to Harry, before biting into one himself. Then the former Death Eater sat there with his sleeves pushed up and the bright morning sun roasting his back, squinting at the sleepy little Muggle town.

Glancing over at the black-haired boy next to him, who was making short work of his own apple as he poked in the bags for the breakfast rolls they'd also bought, Draco felt...peace. He shouldn't. But for that moment in time, Harry was sitting beside him looking perfectly at ease, somehow as much at home in this strange Muggle outpost as Draco had ever seen him be at Hogwarts. They were dozens of miles (which might as well be millions) from everything that had occurred at Malfoy Manor. And Draco was momentarily at peace.

He didn't want to end it.

Harry pulled out a carton of orange juice, twisting off the plastic cap to swig directly from the opening, and Draco scolded him. "Really, Potter? That's so unsanitary."

Green eyes slid over to him and the boy asked lazily, "So?"

Draco smirked. "So give it here." Harry had a similarly sharp smile in his eyes, and then Draco took the carton and tipped it back, a shadow falling over them as he did.

Rolling his eyes up to see who was standing above them, the blond recognized the storekeeper from the grocery. She was an old woman, probably in her seventies, and was eyeing the two of them sternly from under her sagging lids. "What do you think you two are doing here?"

Harry waved his apple core at her and smiled like a guileless Gryffindor. "Finishing a quick breakfast."

Draco was surprised when the birdlike old Muggle crouched down beside them, knees cracking as she did. "You boys aren't from around here," she said, more a statement than a question.

Harry smiled. "No, we aren't."

"My family has a house up by the lake," Draco explained.

The woman's black eyes crinkled into a smile as she regarded Draco. "Yes... I remember you visiting from time to time. Not many with that hair. You were the cutest little blond thing, though you were so _serious_."

When Draco flushed, the old woman cackled with good humor. She patted each boy on the shoulder with a gnarled hand and told Draco, "I think I might have an old picture of you and your father from one of your visits. Stop by again, and I'll try to dig it out for you." Then she hobbled back into the shop.

Harry looked like he might laugh, and Draco couldn't seem to control the blush burning along his cheekbones. "Shut it, Potter," he grumbled, before the boy had even made a sound. "Let's get back to the house before all the bloody groceries are spoilt."

* * *

THE WALK BACK TO THE house went quicker, as trips always seem to do once you know where you're going. When they arrived, Harry took point again—as he had done in the shop—being much more familiar with how things like kitchens worked. Foods that needed to be kept cold, he put in the refrigerator or freezer. He left the loaf of sandwich bread on the counter, along with the fruit they'd got. He handed Malfoy the shampoo and conditioner and soap they'd bought for the bathroom, as well as the new toothpaste and cheap plastic toothbrushes. There was toilet paper as well, plus paper towels for the kitchen. A sponge for the sink. Washing-up liquid.

But before very long, it was all put away, and Harry had used one of the empty plastic bags to line the bin in the kitchen, and then there was nothing else to do. He tucked the bin back under the sink, then turned around, his hands against the countertop behind him. Draco stood at the other end of the kitchen, a glass of water in one hand that he'd filled up from the tap after the long walk. He looked down into it. "Thanks for all the help," he said, voice carefully neutral. "You're a lot better at all this than I would ever be."

Harry shrugged. "I grew up a Muggle, you know." One corner of his mouth lifted. "And not a spoiled rich git."

"Not all of us can be so lucky," Draco quipped. Then he smoothed his expression back into something noncommittal. "Any other questions I can answer for you? To repay you for your kind-if-ever-so-humble help?"

Drumming his fingers against the counter's edge, Harry said, "Sure. What's there around here to do?"

He watched as the other boy's mouth sagged open. "That's not what I—" Draco shook his head. "Don't you have questions about...well..."

"I'm still working those out," Harry interrupted to say, since Draco seemed to be struggling to find words. "And in the meantime, there are a lot of hours to fill."

And that was how they ended up with Draco showing him the lake. It was tucked away through the trees, ringed with several paths that led around it and off to Wotton Underwood to the east, which it technically belonged to. It was usually only open for public visits during certain days and times, but since he'd been a boy sneaking around these fields and woods, Draco had never seen any reason to bother with such common practices. They walked the several miles around the lake, Harry eying the small islands curiously, pointing out the grotto on the largest one. But for the most part, they didn't speak.

When noon had come and gone, and they were both starving from the walk, they turned back to the house. Harry made sandwiches while Draco awkwardly insisted he didn't need to, standing again at the far end of the kitchen and not seeming to know what to do with himself.

"Then who will?" Harry asked, peeling apart the sliced cheese to lay some on the bread he'd already placed on two plates. "You going to summon one of your house elves?"

"Well, there's a thought." Draco seemed to be seriously considering the idea, which apparently hadn't occurred to him before. "It might work."

Harry threw the package of cheese at Draco, unsurprised when the former Seeker managed to catch it. "Leave the poor things alone. As a fellow one of the beings who has been used by you in the past, I insist."

Draco's fingers tightened around the cheese. He walked past Harry to put it away in the refrigerator where he'd see the other boy pull it from, asking with his back turned, "Then why are _you_ making me lunch?"

"Who said I was making you anything?" Harry stacked the top slices of bread on the piles of meat and cheese he'd constructed. "Both these sandwiches are for me."

When Draco blinked in surprised, Harry snickered to himself. But Harry slid a plate in front of Draco anyway, and they both ate their sandwiches in silence. After lunch, Harry quickly rinsed the dishes while Draco poked around the house he only half remembered, opening closets and looking in cupboards. Harry left the two plates to dry before wandering back into the living room himself. Since there was an old television in one corner, Harry squatted in front of it, curious to see if it still worked. It was the older type that he remembered from his youngest days, before the Dursleys got newer models to impress any visitors. It turned on with almost inaudible whine, a small square of light appearing in the center and expanding outward, full of nothing but static. Turning the knob through the channels, he saw it did still pick up on the public channels, if a bit fuzzy and off center.

Flicking the TV off again, Harry turned around to see Malfoy standing behind the sofa, stiff and wary. "Somehow I don't imagine your family has been paying the television license," he said with a bit of a mock censure in his voice.

Malfoy shrugged in bewilderment, not understanding the Muggle reference. The silence threatened them again, and he asked, "What else do you want to know? What else can I tell you?"

It seemed obvious he wished Harry would simply figure out his questions and then leave. "What do you plan to do here?" Harry asked. "If you're not going to go back to Hogwarts."

"Not going on any murder sprees, if that's what you're worried about." There was a sort of desperate humor in Draco's gray eyes. "If you think you have to keep an eye on me or I might do something terrible, you don't have to. And anyway, let the Aurors do that, if you're really concerned. You don't—have to stay here with me."

Harry sat down on the sofa, not bothering to look Draco's way. "So you're planning to stay out here, alone in the woods, forever, simply running your vault dry?"

"It'll take a lot more than buying unnecessary rolls of digestives or extra ice lollies to exhaust my family's vaults," Draco pointed out. He shrugged, still standing and looking down at Harry sitting on the sofa. "I don't know. I just needed a place that no one knew about. Some space so I could figure out what I ought to do next."

 _Yes_ , Harry thought. _That sounds about right._

"Why are you still here, Potter? What else do you need from me?"

Harry looked up into Draco's strained face and told the other boy, "I guess that's what I need to figure out."

* * *

WITH NOTHING ELSE TO DO, they went to walk again, still trying to orient themselves in the countryside Draco only had fuzzy memories of. They'd been south to Brill, where the small market was, so this time they turned north, walking until they hit Kingswood and the A41. The signs there told them that Bicester and Blackthorn lay to the left, while Aylesbury and Waddesdon lay somewhere to the right. With nothing to go on except the fact that the view to the right was mostly fields and the view to the left seemed to hold more houses, they chose to go left and continue walking.

The motorway was busy enough here that cars passed by quite regularly, making it noisy enough that conversation would be hard, and they both seized the excuse not to even try. Before long, though, the houses had disappeared again, and they were wandering alone beside sprawling fields and under large powerlines crossing the countryside, forced to push through tall grass and brush up against wild shrubbery because there was no shoulder to the road.

After nearly an hour of walking, the road branched, and they reached a sign pointing back to Brill and Ludgershall, claiming that Brill was four miles back. Without speaking, they both came to a stop, looking between the different roads and out across the empty meadows.

"Should we turn back?" Draco asked, shading his eyes.

Harry shrugged. "Might as well see where this leads."

So they carried on walking. The sun beat down, and they both grew increasingly thirsty and sweaty, but not knowing how much farther it might be, neither wanted to turn around when they could be only five or ten minutes away from respite—whereas they knew it was well over an hour back to the house. The longer they went on, the harder it became to turn back and admit that all the distance they'd traveled had been for nothing.

After a second hour of walking, they finally started to see some signs of civilization. They passed by industrial parks and the sort of dreary commercial buildings that tend to crop up on the outskirts of cities. Then there was a road sign indicating that the town center and rail station should lie ahead. At last they reached the high street, and Harry quickly made a beeline for a popular fast food restaurant, where he went straight to the counter to order two ridiculously large soft drinks. They drained them in minutes.

Once they'd slaked their thirst and had a moment to recover from the long walk under the blazing summer sun, Draco and Harry looked at one another. "Should we get something to eat while we're here?" Harry asked. "It's already five. It's going to be quite late for dinner by the time we can walk all the way back."

Draco cocked an eyebrow, rattling the ice cubes left in his strange paper cup. "Maybe you should learn to Apparate."

"Maybe I'd end up splinching myself," Harry pointed out.

Snorting, Draco agreed, "Fair point. You probably would, you hopeless sot."

Turning in the hard plastic seat to look at the menus posted over the counter, Harry added, "I'm also still underage, meaning that any magic I perform might be picked up by the ministry. And since I don't have an Apparition license, me messing about with Apparition could bring the ministry right here to us." His eyes flickered back to Draco. "Though if that's fine with you...?"

"No, never mind. Walking is good for a body," Draco insisted, pretending he was also intent on the menus. Their gazes both wandered over the names of the foods and the prices posted beside them until Draco suddenly said, "I'd forgot that your birthday is also in the summer. Soon though, isn't it?"

Harry's heart gave a funny little leap in his surprise. It shouldn't mean anything that Draco had some idea when his birthday was. Practically everyone in the Wizarding world knew when his birthday was, rather like Muggles knew when Christmas was. He nodded after a moment. "Yeah, end of this month." He realized he had no idea when Malfoy's birthday was, but he'd never noticed if the Slytherin had ever celebrated it at school. "You?"

"Came and went," Draco said, eyes flicking between cheap food options. "June 5. You're looking at a grown wizard, Potter. So I suppose I can just Apparate back and leave you to walk, if you annoy me too much." He said things like that, and yet he hadn't made any real move to drive Harry off or abandon him. And Harry realized that Malfoy's birthday must have passed while he was trapped in a dungeon. Instead of anyone celebrating him coming off age, he'd been locked up beneath his childhood home by his own mother.

They decided to go ahead and eat, and Malfoy got his first taste of a Muggle fast-food hamburger, seeming equal parts disgusted and intrigued by the experience. Harry tried not to laugh as he dug into his own terrible meal. He knew the food was arguably garbage, but a part of him still couldn't help craving it. Not only because it was designed to be eminently craveable but also because it had been so incredibly rare growing up with the Dursleys to be taken out for any sort of meal, even a cheap one, that it had always seemed more wondrous than his birthday and Christmas combined to get a squashed burger wrapped in greasy paper.

He didn't tell Draco any of those things, though, as they polished off their cheap supper. After leaving the shop, they walked up and down the length of the high street a while, scouting out what was there. When Draco looked at his wristwatch and insisted that they should think about turning back ("if you haven't changed your mind about learning how to Apparate like a normal person"), Harry agreed, only insisting that they stop in at a corner shop to buy some bottled water for the long trek back.

It was getting close to seven by the time they started back toward the motorway. The sun was still up, since it was summer, but it was growing lower, large and bloated as it sank toward the horizon. The road was quieter now, less people out and about as there had been during the middle of the afternoon. They'd fallen into the same formation as that morning, with Harry following behind Draco and unable to see anything of his face. It was easier to ask the real questions that way.

"Did you start the fire?"

Draco didn't have to ask which fire Harry meant, even though the question had come quite suddenly out of the quiet twilight. He only nodded.

"Why?"

It took a while for the other boy to answer, several cars passing them in the time he needed to put the words together. "I thought I had to," he said at last. Harry didn't think that was the end of it, so he chose to keep his mouth shut and continue waiting for Draco to say more. It took a long time, but it was a very long walk, and eventually the boy got the rest out. "Everything—everything was so that I might get free of Voldemort. I had to be sure he was _gone._ He couldn't ever come back or it would all mean nothing. But..." Draco's voice faltered and failed for a moment. "But if I let the other Death Eaters go, then I wouldn't ever be free. They might come after me. They might try to bring him back _again_."

His shoulder were hunched as if he were cold, but it was still more than pleasantly warm in the July evening. He muttered, "There must've been a better way. Some way to round them up for the Aurors. But I thought I had to be sure I'd got them all." He kept walking onward like that, hands shoved in his pockets, as he asked in a tight voice, "Did I?"

_Did I get them all? Am I free? How many deaths are on my hands?_

Harry took a deep breath. He knew the final figures. It had all been in the papers, though they were papers Draco had never had the chance to see or read. "They didn't all die," he explained, voice soft enough that he had to pause every time a car rumbled past. "But the ones who didn't were arrested. They're in the new prison now. All except Snape, of course."

Those tense shoulders flinched. "Snape was all right?" Draco hadn't been sure if his former head of house had been among those who came when he'd summoned them. He hadn't known the full number of Voldemort's forces, instead having to make his best guess that they all had assembled when they'd stopped trailing in from across the grounds and no one else had shown up for some time.

"Snape was fine," Harry hurried to explain, not realizing that Draco hadn't even known that Snape had been teaching as usual for the past six months. "He never even went to the manor. He was too busy trying to help deal with the aftermath of the ajatar, brewing curatives for Dumbledore." They'd thought Snape could claim it was necessary for his act, that he would lose Dumbledore's trust if he disappeared during such a disaster. They'd been ready to explain it away if Voldemort were to ask later why Snape hadn't answered the summons. Neither Snape nor Dumbledore could have imagined then that Voldemort would never get the chance to ask.

"Then who did die?"

"Greyback," Harry began, starting where it was easiest. Greyback had been an absolute nightmare, and they both knew it. "Both the Carrows. And Dolohov." Harry licked his lips before going on. "Bellatrix Lestrange."

Draco didn't say anything in response to the news that he'd killed his own aunt, his eyes trained on the road ahead of him as he kept walking forward. After a few moments, he asked, "Is that all of them?"

Harry had been keeping the last name back, but finally he had to say it. "And Goyle's dad."

It wasn't as if Draco and Goyle had been friends in the sense that Harry was used to. Their relationship was nothing like what Harry considered friendship. But he knew that Crabbe and Goyle had both been loyal in their own ways to Draco for many years, and surely it couldn't be easy to hear that you'd killed the father of someone who you had known and relied on like that for so long.

"He was the last," Harry made sure to say, wanting it to be clear, since Draco wasn't saying anything. "Only those six died. There were a lot of other injuries, but they were all taken to St. Mungos and recovered before they stood their trials. They'll probably live out long sentences in prison."

This time Draco didn't even nod as he silently continued to put one foot in front of the other. Minutes stretched on between them, the sun warm on their backs and casting long, long shadows in front of them as they walked. Harry didn't ask any more questions, letting Draco have the time to himself. In fact, it was Draco who asked the next question, some time later.

"So am I wanted man?"

_I still want you. Does that count?_

Draco had tried to inject some lightness into the question, as if it were all a joke, but Harry couldn't respond in kind. He shook his head and explained, "Not as far as I know. They closed the investigations, according to the _Prophet_. The papers said there was nothing to concretely link you to having ever even been there. No direct evidence anyway. They decided it was simply some internal disagreement that ended up deadly after Voldemort fell. Perhaps due to some power struggle. Though I imagine they would have some questions for you, if they knew you were alive."

They had reached the signpost pointing the way to Brill again, meaning that they were about halfway home. _Not home. Halfway back to the house where we're sleeping. The house I'm hiding in and that Potter should be leaving soon_ , Draco thought. He wasn't sure how he felt about the fact that the ministry might not throw him in prison the moment they found him. Perhaps Aurors or people like Dumbledore could get away with killing Dark wizards, but it didn't feel right that he should. Even if they'd been monsters, it didn't seem right that he should get away with murder. You couldn't just get away with things like he'd done. They deserved some kind of retribution.

Greg's dad was dead because of him. Greg had done everything Draco had ever asked of him since they were nine years old. Even after Draco had been expelled from Slytherin house the year before, Greg had still followed Draco's direction regardless of what Zabini said or did. And Draco had taken his father away from him forever. He knew that Goyle Sr. hadn't been a very good father, he knew he'd bullied Greg and knocked him and his mother around, but that didn't really change anything.

As if he had some idea of the sort of thoughts going through Draco's head, Harry spoke from behind him: "You said yesterday...that you deserved whatever had happened to you."

"Yes."

"But you didn't," Harry said, voice quiet but steady. "You didn't deserve it. I know the things you've done—but no one deserves to be made a Death Eater against their will. No one deserves to have parents who...hurt them."

Draco shook his head. That didn't change anything either. "It's not...something that can be _justified_ away. That doesn't _erase_ anything. You didn't deserve to be used like a tool for my purposes, either. Greg didn't _deserve_ to lose his father."

"He wasn't a good person," Harry pointed out. "Goyle was a Death Eater. He tortured people. Murdered people. He did terrible things."

"That doesn't change what _I did_ ," Draco insisted.

"No." Harry sighed as he agreed, "It doesn't change anything." He knew that himself. He'd known that he was supposed to kill Voldemort, the worst of them all, and he'd still been unable to bring himself to try. He was quite sure he would have been haunted for a long time if he'd had to do it. But Draco had done it, and now Harry would never have to. And maybe that would end up haunting him instead.

It had been a war, and it was over—thanks to Draco. If there was to be any point to it being over, though, they had to move forward. They simply had to live with what had been done to end it. Otherwise they might as well have never bothered fighting their doom in the first place.

"Maybe life just isn't about anyone getting what they deserve," Harry threw out, thinking about his own life: the parents that had been stolen from him, the miserable upbringing he'd received from his aunt, the prophecy someone else had made about him without him knowing. He didn't think he'd really deserved any of it, just as he hadn't deserved the fame and admiration that he'd got in the Wizarding world in return.

Draco looked down the country lane, off into the horizon that disappeared into unknown corners of countryside he'd never seen. "What's it about then, Potter?"

"How should I know?" Harry gave a rueful laugh. "I'm still not even seventeen. I thought you were the grown one here?"

A hint a smile could be heard in Draco's voice as he replied, "You're right. Foolish of me, really, to ask you of all people for life advice. You're clearly hopeless."

 _Probably_ , Harry thought. Hopeless was the only word to describe it, unless you wanted to choose something that sounded even worse, like 'stupid' or 'mad.' That was how most people would choose to describe the decisions he was making right now, but they still felt like the only ones he _could_ make. He still wasn't ready to let Draco disappear from his life. And so he kept walking in the other boy's wake, following the blond back to the house that they were sharing for however long it might take for this madness to run its course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the last several chapters have either had massively rewritten scenes or entirely new scenes added to them. This story really probably ought to be two separate stories: one telling what happened Year 6, and another telling what happens in Year 7. And unfortunately the original bridge between these two happened far too fast (or it feels that way now) without any of the necessary reflection on what happened. Rereading it after so long, the original version had almost no introspection from Draco—or anyone around him—about the fact that he just straight up murdered a ton of folks when he was still sixteen years old. (And the original was even bloodier with how he went about with the murder fest!) So it's felt necessary to add a bit more time to deal with some repercussions of his actions in Year 6 before diving right into the drama of Year 7. We're nearly there, though!


End file.
